Ils-^       ^ 


-1 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2007  with  funding  from 

IVIicrosoft  Corporation 


http://www.archive.org/details/bonniemayOOdodgiala 


Bonnie  May 


P0K.  Of  GAUF.  UBRARY.  LOS  ANGKLtS 


She  assumed  a  slightly  careless  air  and  looked  airily  at 
imaginary  objects. 

(Page  144.) 


Bonnie  May 


By 

Louis  Dodge 

Illustrations  by 

Reginald   Birch 


A  strolling  player  comes 


New  York 

Charles    Scribner's    Sons 

1916 


Copyright,  1916,  by 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


Published  August,  1916 


TO 

THE  LITTLE  NEW  ENGLAND  GIRL 
WHO  (in  compant  with  her  mother) 

MADE    FRIENDS   WITH   AN   AMERICAN    SOLDIER 

ON   A   JUNE   DAY   IN    1 898 

IH  THE   MARKET-PLACE   IN    HONOLULU 

AND    PROMISED 

*'l   SHALL  HETER   PORGET  TOU " 


2129351 


Contents 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.    The  Intrusion  of  an  Actress i 

II.    A  Momentous  Decision 15 

III.  Mrs.  Baron  Decides 24 

IV.  A  Crisis 36 

V.    Bonnie  May  Opens  the  Door 46 

VT.    Concerning  a  Frock 59 

VII.    A  Sunday  Morning 75 

VIII.    Still  Unclaimed 86 

IX.    A  Disappointing  Performance 95 

X.    The  White  Elephant .  no 

XI.    How  A  Conveyance  Came  for  Bonnie  May 

— ^AND  How  It  Went  Away 121 

XII.    Relates  to  the  Playing  of  Parts  ....  137 

XIII.  A  Mysterious  Search  Begins 146 

XIV.  Mr.  Addis  Receives  Support 155 

XV.    A  Question  of  Reconstruction 169 

vii 


Contents 

CBAPTEX  FAGS 

XVI.  Mrs.  Thornbiirg  Reveals  a  Secret  .   .  184 

XVH.    "A  Kind  of  Duel" 193 

XVni.  Mrs.  Baron  Takes  Up  the  Gauntlet  .  202 

XIX.    Bonnie  May  Looks  Back 218 

XX.    Concerning  Laughter 230 

XXI.    An  Exit  and  an  Entrance 244 

XXII.    Baggot's  Play 257 

XXIII.  Baron  Comes  Home  on  a  Beer-Dray   .  267 

XXrV.    Bonnie  May  Hides  Something 279 

XXV.  Bonnie    May    Sees   Two   Faces   at   a 

Window 289 

XXVT.    A  Gathering  in  the  Attic 298 

XXVn.    What  Happened  in  the  Attic 310 

XXVni.  After  the  Curtain  Was  Lowered.   .  .  321 

XXIX.    The  Mansion  in  Shadow 331 

XXX.    "The  Break  of  Day" 339 


vm 


Illustrations 

She  assumed  a  slightly  careless  air  and  looked  airily  at 

imaginary  objects Frontispiece 

rACINO  PAGE 

"I  thought  everybody  knew  me,"  she  said.    "I'm  Bonnie 

May" 8 

"  Good  evening,"  she  said,  as  if  she  were  addressing  strangers  28 

"You  seem  a  little  old  for  the  part,"  she  suggested    ...  54. 

A  most  extraordinary  ancient  man  stood  there  watching  her  8  2 

"  Enter  the  heroine !"  was  the  child's  greeting 162 

"  They  look  as  if  they  were  quite  happy — and  didn't  care  to 

be  anything  else" 180 

"I  don't  know  what  you're  getting  at!"  he  exclaimed. 
"If  you've  got  anything  to  say,  why  not  say  it  and  be 

done  with  it?" 196 

"Dear  child,  do  try  to  love  me,  won't  you?" 252 

Thomason  jerked  his  needle  through  a  tough  place  and 

pulled  it  out  to  arm's  length 292 

"Look  at  them!"  she  screamed.     "Look!    Look!".   .   .  318 

She  had  put  her  arms  about  the  trembling  old  lady's  neck, 

and  for  the  moment  they  were  both  silent 352 


Bonnie  May 


Only  women  understand  children  thoroughlyy 
hut  if  a  mere  man  keeps  very  quiet  and 
humbles  himself  properly^  and  refrains  from 
talking  down  to  his  superiors,  children  will 
sometimes  be  good  to  him  and  let  him  see  what 
they  think  about  the  world. 

RuDYARD  Kipling. 


Bonnie  May 

CHAPTER   I 

THE  INTRUSION  OF  AN  ACTRESS 

Somewhere  up  in  the  gallery  an  usher  opened  a 
window.  Instantly  a  shaft  of  sunhght  pierced  the 
dark  interior  of  the  theatre.  It  created  a  mote- 
filled  aerial  avenue  across  a  vast  space  and  came 
to  an  end  in  a  balcony  box. 

As  if  it  were  part  of  a  general  theatrical  scheme 
it  served  as  a  search-light  and  brought  into  brilliant 
reUef  the  upper  part  of  a  child's  body.  There  were 
blue  eyes  made  lustrous  by  dark  lashes;  hair  the 
color  of  goldenrod,  which  fell  forward  over  one 
shoulder  and  formed  a  kind  of  radiant  vehicle  above 
for  the  support  of  a  butterfly  of  blue  ribbon.  There 
were  dehcate  red  Hps,  slightly  parted. 

The  child  leaned  forward  in  her  place  and  rested 
her  elbows  on  the  box  railing.  Her  chin  nestled  in 
a  little  crotch,  formed  by  her  two  hands.  She 
would  have  resembled  one  of  Rubens's  cherubs,  if 
Rubens  hadn't  conceived  his  cherubs  on  quite  such 
a  vulgar  plane. 

It  was  so  that  Baron  saw  her  during  a  brief  in- 
terval. Then  the  window  up  in  the  gallery  was 
closed,  and  darkness  reigned  in  the  theatre  again. 


Bonnie  May 

The  child  disappeared  as  Marguerite  always  dis- 
appears before  Faust  has  obtained  more  than  a 
seductive  gUmpse  of  her. 

Baron  wondered  who  she  was.  She  was  so  close 
to  him  that  he  could  have  touched  her.  He  won- 
dered how  she  could  have  slipped  into  the  box  with- 
out his  seeing  or  hearing  her.  The  lights  had  been 
on  when  he  took  his  seat,  and  at  that  time  he  had 
occupied  the  box  alone.  She  must  have  crept  in 
with  the  cautiousness  of  a  kitten;  or  perhaps  she 
had  come  under  cover  of  the  noise  of  applause. 

Then  he  forgot  her.  All  sorts  of  people  were 
likely  to  come  into  a  playhouse  during  a  matin6e 
performance,  he  reflected. 

Dawn  was  merging  into  day — in  the  play.  The 
purple  of  a  make-believe  sky  turned  to  lavender, 
and  to  pink.  The  long,  horizontal  streaks  of  color 
faded,  and  in  the  stronger  Hght  now  turned  on  the 
stage  a  gypsy  woman  who  seemed  to  have  been  sleep- 
ing under  a  hedge  came  into  view — a,  young  creature, 
who  patted  back  a  yawn  which  distorted  her  pretty 
mouth.     Other  persons  of  the  drama  appeared. 

Baron  succumbed  to  the  hypnotic  power  of  the 
theatre:  to  the  beguiling  illusions  of  the  stage,  with 
its  beautiful  voices;  the  relaxed  musicians,  unob- 
trusively disinterested;  the  dark,  indistinct  rows  of 
alert  forms  down  in  the  parquet.  Despite  what  he 
was  pleased  to  beHeve  was  a  distinguished  indiffer- 
ence in  his  manner,  he  was  passionately  fond  of 
plays,  amazingly  susceptible  to  their  appeal. 


The  Intrusion  of  an  Actress 

The  act  ended;  light  flooded  the  theatre.  Baron's 
glance  again  fell  upon  the  intruder  who  had  come  to 
share  his  box  with  him.  The  child  reaUy  might 
have  been  mistaken  for  an  exquisite  bit  of  architec- 
tural ornamentation,  if  she  had  been  placed  in  a 
niche  in  the  big  proscenium  arch.  Color  and  pose 
and  outline  all  suggested  the  idea.  But  now  her 
bearing  changed.  As  she  had  been  absorbed  in  the 
meaning  of  the  play,  now  she  became  equally  inter- 
ested in  the  audience,  rising  in  long  rows  from  par- 
quet to  gallery.  She  looked  almost  aggressively 
from  point  to  point,  with  a  lack  of  self -consciousness 
that  was  quite  remarkable. 

People  in  the  audience  were  noticing  her,  too; 
and  Baron  felt  suddenly  resentful  at  being  so  con- 
spicuously perched  before  hundreds  of  eyes,  in 
company  with  a  child  he  knew  nothing  about. 

She  appeared  to  have  scrutinized  "the  house"  to 
her  satisfaction.  Then  she  turned  as  if  she  were 
sHghtly  bored,  and  gazed  with  perfect  frankness 
into  Baron's  eyes. 

"Sold  out,"  she  said,  as  if  she  were  gratified. 

Baron  did  not  clearly  grasp  the  fact  that  she  was 
referring  to  "the  house."  A  question  as  to  her  age 
occurred  to  him,  but  this  he  could  not  answer.  She 
must  be  absurdly  young — a  baby;  yet  he  noted  that 
she  had  gained  command  of  a  glance  that  was 
almost  maturely  searching  and  complacent.  She 
was  not  the  least  bit  agitated. 

When,  presently,  she  stood  up  on  her  chair  to 

3 


Bonnie  May 

obtain  a  general  view  of  the  audience,  Baron  frowned. 
She  was  really  a  brazen  little  thing,  he  reflected,  de- 
spite her  angeHc  prettiness.  And  he  had  a  swift 
fear  that  she  might  fall.  Looking  at  her  uneasily, 
he  realized  now  that  she  was  quite  tawdrily  dressed. 

His  first  impression  of  her  had  been  one  of  beauty 
unmarred.  (He  had  not  seen  immediately  that  the 
blue  butterfly  which  rode  jauntily  on  her  crown  was 
soiled.)  Now  a  closer  inspection  discovered  a  fan- 
tastic little  dress  which  might  have  been  designed 
for  a  fancy  baU — and  it  was  quite  old,  and  almost 
shabby.  Yet  its  gay  colors,  not  whoUy  faded,  har- 
monized with  some  indefinable  quaHty  in  the  little 
creature,  and  the  whole  garment  derived  a  grace 
from  its  wearer  which  really  amounted  to  a  kind  of 
elfish  distinction. 

She  spoke  again  presently,  and  now  Baron  was 
struck  by  the  quaHty  of  her  voice.  It  was  rather 
full  for  a  httle  girl's  voice — ^not  the  affected  pipe  of 
the  average  vain  and  pretty  child.  There  was  an 
oddly  frank,  comrade-like  quality  in  it. 

"Do  you  know  what  I've  got  a  notion  to  do?" 
she  inquired. 

Baron  withdrew  farther  within  himself.  "I 
couldn't  possibly  guess,"  he  responded.  He  shook 
his  head  faintly,  to  indicate  indifference.  She  leaned 
so  far  over  the  edge  of  the  box  that  he  feared  again 
for  her  safety. 

"I  think  you  might  possibly  fall,"  he  said. 
"Would  you  mind  sitting  down?" 

4 


The  Intrusion  of  an  Actress 

She  did  as  he  suggested  with  a  prompt  and  sweet 
spirit  of  obedience.  "I'm  afraid  I  was  careless," 
she  said.  Then,  looking  over  more  guardedly,  she 
added:  "I've  got  a  notion  to  drop  my  programme 
down  on  that  old  duck's  bald  head." 

Baron  looked  down  into  the  parquet.  An  elderly 
gentleman,  conspicuously  bald-headed,  sat  just  be- 
neath them.  Something  about  the  shining  dome 
was  almost  comical.  Yet  he  turned  to  the  child 
coldly.  He  marvelled  that  he  had  not  detected  a 
pert  or  self-conscious  expression  of  countenance  to 
accompany  the  words  she  had  spoken.  But  she 
was  looking  into  his  eyes  quite  earnestly. 

He  turned  his  face  away  from  her  for  an  instant, 
and  then,  with  an  air  of  having  worked  out  a  prob- 
lem  

"I  don't  believe  I  would,"  he  said. 

"It  might  frighten  him?"  she  suggested. 

"Not  that.    He  might  not  think  it  very  poKte." 

She  looked  at  him  studiously  a  Httle,  her  earnest 
eyes  seeming  to  search  his  soul.  Then  she  ven- 
tured upon  a  story: 

"I  got  on  a  street-car  with  Miss  Barry  to-day, 
and  we  sat  down  on  a  seat  with  a  fat  woman;  and, 
beheve  me,  the  big  thing  nearly  squeezed  the  giz- 
zard out  of  me." 

Her  eyes  grew  wide  with  excitement  as  she 
achieved  the  cHmax.    She  waited  for  his  comment. 

His  eyeUds  quivered  slightly.  He  decided  to  pay 
no  more  attention  to  her,  despite  her  prettiness. 

5 


Bonnie  May 

What  language!  He  stared  resolutely  at  his  pro- 
gramme a  fuU  minute.  But  he  could  not  shake  off 
the  influence  of  her  steady  gaze.  "I  think  you 
must  be  exaggerating,"  he  said  finally,  with  mild 
irritation. 

"Not  at  all,  really." 

"Well,  then,"  he  added  impatiently,  "I  think 
your  language  is — ^is  indelicate." 

"Do  you,  indeed?"  She  considered  this,  "Of 
course  that's  a  matter  of  opinion."  She  abandoned 
the  subject  and  seemed  to  be  searching  his  face  for 
a  topic  -which  might  be  more  acceptable.  "A  good 
many  things  have  happened  to  me,"  she  ventured 
presently.  "  I  came  within  an  inch  of  getting  caught 
by  the  curtain  once." 

He  had  no  idea  what  she  meant. 

She  continued:  "It  was  in  a  regular  tank  town 
somewhere.  I  never  pay  any  attention  to  the 
names  of  the  little  towns."  Her  tone  clearly  con- 
veyed the  fact  that  she  wished  to  get  away  from 
controversial  topics.  She  waited,  plainly  puzzled, 
rather  than  discouraged,  because  she  received  no  re- 
sponse. "You  know,"  she  elaborated,  "the  audi- 
ences in  the  little  towns  don't  care  much  whether 
it's  something  legitimate,  or  a  tambourine  show  with 
a  lot  of  musty  jokes.'* 

Still  Baron's  inclination  was  to  make  no  response; 
but  really  there  was  such  an  amazing  contrast  be- 
>tween  her  innocent  beauty  and  her  gamin-Kke 
speech  that  he  could  not  easily  ignore  her. 

6 


The  Intrusion  of  an  Actress 

"I'm  not  sure  I  know  the  difference  myself,"  he 
confessed. 

"Well,  you'd  rather  see  'Uncle  Tom's  Cabin* 
than  a  lot  of  Honey  Boys,  wouldn't  you?" 

"I'm  afraid  I'd  be  in  favor  of  the  Honey  Boys, 
whoever  they  are,  unless  they  are  pretty  bad." 

She  looked  incredulous,  and  then  disappointed. 
For  an  instant  she  turned  her  back  on  him  with 
resolution.  He  observed  that  she  squirmed  herself 
into  a  position  of  dignified  uprightness  in  her 
chair. 

After  a  brief  interval  she  turned  to  him  with  re- 
newed hope.  "Maybe  you're  prejudiced  against 
*  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin'?"  she  ventured. 

"Frankly,  I  am." 

"You're  not  down  on  the  legitimate,  though?" 

"I  like  plays — ^if  that's  what  you  mean." 

Her  forehead  wrinkled.  "Certainly  that's  what 
I  mean.     What  did  you  think  I  meant?" 

"Why,  you  see,  I  wasn't  quite  sure." 

She  searched  his  eyes  suspiciously;  then  sud- 
denly she  dimpled.  "Tell  me — are  you  an  actor? 
Or  aren't  you?" 

"No — assuredly  not!" 

She  was  genuinely  embarrassed.  She  allowed  her 
face  to  drop  into  her  hands,  and  Baron  felt  from 
her  gesture  that  she  must  be  blushing  though  he 
could  see  that  she  was  not. 

After  a  little  she  laughed  weakly.  "How  child- 
ish of  me!"  she  exclaimed.    "I  really  had  no  right 

7 


,  Bonnie  May 

to  make  such  a  mistake.  But  please  tell  me  how 
you  happen  to  be  up  in  this  box?" 

"The  manager  was  good  enough  to  direct  an  usher 
to  bring  me  here." 

"Well,  you  know,  I  thought  this  box  was  always 
given  to  us — to  the  profession,  I  mean.  I  do  hope 
you'll  forgive  me."  She  seemed  prepared  to  with- 
draw her  interest  from  him  then,  as  if  he  no  longer 
concerned  her  in  any  way. 

But  Baron  was  looking  at  her  searchingly,  almost 
rudely.  "Are  you  an — an  actress?"  he  managed  to 
ask. 

Her  manner  changed.  For  the  first  time  Baron 
detected  an  affectation.  She  looked  beyond  him, 
out  toward  the  chattering  audience,  with  an  absurd 
assumption  of  weariness. 

"I  thought  everybody  knew  me,"  she  said.  "I*m 
Bonnie  May.  You've  heard  of  me,  of  course?" 
and  she  brought  her  eyes  back  to  his  anxiously. 

"Why,  yes,  of  course,"  he  assented.  He  was  un- 
comfortable over  the  untruth — or  over  the  fact  that 
he  had  not  told  it  adroitly. 

"I  wouldn't  have  talked  to  you  so  freely  if  I 
hadn't  thought  you  were  an  actor,"  she  explained. 
"You  know  we  always  treat  one  another  that  way." 

His  manner  softened.  "I'm  sure  I  understand," 
he  assured  her. 

He  perceived  that,  despite  the  lightness  of  her 
manner,  she  was  truly  ashamed  of  her  mistake.  It 
seemed  to  him  that  she  was  regretfully  slipping  back 

8 


i  "I  thought  everybody  knew  me,"  she  said.     "I'm 

Bonnie  May." 


The  Intrusion  of  an  Actress 

into  her  own  world,  her  own  realm  of  thought.  And 
she  was  speedily  becoming,  to  him,  not  a  pert  minx, 
but  just  a  lonely,  friendly  Httle  child. 

"I  don't  believe  I  know  just  where  you  are  ap- 
pearing now,"  he  said.  For  the  moment  he  could 
not  do  less  than  appear  to  be  interested  in  her. 

She  moved  uncomfortably  in  her  chair.  "I'm 
not  doing  anything  just  now,"  she  said.  Then  her 
eyes  brightened.  "The  manager  skipped  just  when 
business  was  picking  up.  We  had  to  close  our  season. 
Such  a  jay  town  we  closed  in.  The  people  wanted 
to  hold  our  trunks ! " 

"But  they  didn't?" 

"No,  we  gave  one  more  performance,  so  we  could 
square  up." 

"Why  shouldn't  you  have  kept  on  giving  per- 
formances ?  " 

"Of  course,  you  wouldn't  imderstand.  You  see, 
the  manager  was  our  Simon  Legree,  and  we  couldn't 
do  without  him." 

"But  that  last  performance " 

"The  constable  who  came  to  hold  our  things  said 
he'd  take  the  part  of  Simon  Legree  just  once,  so  we 
could  pay  our  bills  and  get  out  of  town.  He  said 
there  was  sure  to  be  a  crowd  if  it  was  known  that 
he'  would  be  one  of  the  actors.  He  said  he'd  always 
wanted  to  be  an  actor,  but  that  his  parents  thought 
it  would  be  sinful  for  him  to  act." 

"But  did  he  know  the  part?" 

"He  didn't  have  to.    Even  in  the  profession 

9 


Bonnie  May 

there  are  a  lot  of  us  who  don't  know  our  parts  half 
the  time.  You  may  have  noticed.  The  constable 
said  he  could  'pop  a  whip'  and  we  told  him  that 
would  do,  if  he  would  remember  to  say  'You  black 
rascal ! '  every  Httle  while.  That  would  be  to  Uncle 
Tom,  you  know.  Our  Uncle  Tom  did  both  parts. 
That  happens  lots  of  times.  With  any  play,  I  mean. 
He'd  say:  'Yo'  say  Ah  b'longs  to  you,  Massa  Le- 
gree  ?  Oh,  no,  Massa  Legree,  Ah  don'  b'long  to  you. 
Yo'  may  own  mah  body,  but  yo'  don'  own  mah 
soul.'    Saying  both  parts,  you  know." 

When  Baron  laughed  at  this  she  joined  in  the 
merriment  and  even  promoted  it.  "The  constable 
enjoyed  it,"  she  said.  "He  said  he'd  like  to  leave 
town  with  us  and  play  the  part  aU  the  time." 

"He'd  got  over  thinking  it  was  sinful  for  him  to 
act?" 

"Yes,  but  the  rest  of  us  thought  his  first  hunch 
was  right.  Besides,  there  were  other  difficulties. 
You  see,  our  Topsy  was  the  manager's  wife,  and  she 
wouldn't  play  any  more  untU  she  found  her  hus- 
band. She  wasn't  much  of  an  artist.  Anyway,  we 
had  to  quit." 

Baron  sent  a  wandering  glance  over  the  theatre; 
but  he  was  thinking  of  neither  audience  nor  play. 
He  wondered  whose  child  this  could  be,  and  by  what 
chance  a  little  creature  so  alert  and  so  friendly  in 
her  outlook  upon  Hfe  should  be  deeply  submerged  in 
the  make-beHeve  of  men,  when  she  should  have 
been  reading  only  the  primer  of  real  things. 

lO 


The  Intrusion  of  an  Actress 

Then  by  chance  his  eyes  fell  upon  Thomburg,  the 
manager,  who  stood  just  inside  the  foyer,  engaged 
in  what  was  seemingly  an  intense  conversation  with 
a  tall,  decidedly  striking-looking  woman.  And  even 
as  his  eyes  rested  upon  these  two  they  looked  up  at 
him  as  if  he  were  the  subject  of  their  conversation. 
Or  were  they  not,  more  probably,  discussing  the 
child  who  sat  near  him? 

He  had  no  time  to  pursue  his  reflections.  The 
orchestra  brought  to  its  climax  the  long  overture 
which  it  had  been  playing  with  almost  grotesque  in- 
adequacy, and  the  curtain  went  up  on  the  next  act. 

There  was  the  sudden  diminuendo  of  voices 
throughout  the  house,  and  the  stealthy  disturbance 
of  an  individual  here  and  there  feeling  his  way  to 
his  seat.  Then  again  Baron  was  lost  in  the  progress 
of  the  play. 

The  child  shrank  into  herself  again  and  became 
once  more  an  absorbed,  unobtruding  Httle  creature. 

Baron  sat  in  rapt  silence  for  half  an  hour;  and 
then  the  master  dramatist,  Fate,  intervened,  and 
proceeded  to  make  him  a  figure  in  one  of  those  real 
dramas  before  which  all  make-beHeve  fades  into  in- 
significance. 

At  the  left  of  the  stage  a  flame  went  leaping  up 
along  the  inner  edge  of  one  of  the  wings,  and  took 
swift  hold  of  a  cloud  of  filmy  fabric  overhead.  The 
theatre  was  afire ! 

Baron  saw  and  was  incredulous.  The  child  near 
him  remained  imdisturbed.    The  persons  on   the 

II 


Bonnie  May 

stage  continued  their  work  with  an  evenness  which, 
to  Baron,  became  suddenly  a  deadly  monotony. 
But  back  in  those  realms  in  the  theatre  which  were 
all  but  hidden  from  him  he  saw  the  swift  movements 
of  men  who  were  confronted  with  an  unwonted,  a 
fearful  task. 

He  turned  to  the  child  with  sudden  purpose,  with 
a  manner  that  was  harsh  and  peremptory.  "  Come ! " 
he  said.    His  voice  was  subdued  yet  vibrant. 

The  child  noted  the  vibration  and  quickly  caught 
the  expression  of  command  in  his  eyes.  She  put 
out  a  hand  toward  him  obediently,  but  he  excitedly 
ignored  that.  He  gathered  her  into  his  arms  and  dis- 
appeared from  the  box.  In  an  instant  he  was  carry- 
ing her  cautiously  yet  swiftly  down  a  narrow  stairway. 

He  skirted  the  wall  of  the  theatre  and  passed  the 
manager  in  the  foyer.  He  paused  long  enough  to 
whisper  a  few  startling  words,  and  then  hurried 
toward  the  entrance.  His  ears  were  fortified  for 
the  screams  of  women;  but  he  heard  only  the  dull 
sound  of  the  asbestos  curtain  being  lowered  as  he 
passed  out  to  the  street.  He  did  not  hesitate  until 
he  had  turned  a  comer  and  was  well  out  of  the  way 
of  a  possible  panic-stricken  crowd. 

He  put  the  child  down  on  the  sidewalk;  she  was 
really  a  good  deal  above  the  weight  of  those  children 
who  are  usually  carried.  A  few  steps  and  they  had 
reached  a  confectioner's  shop,  in  which  women  and 
children  were  sitting  at  little  tables,  obUvious  to  all 
menaces,  far  or  near. 

12 


The  Intrusion  of  an  Actress 

"Let's  go  in  here,"  he  said,  trying  to  assume  a 
matter-of-fact  tone.  The  child  looked  searchingly 
into  his  eyes.    "What  was  it?"  she  asked. 

"What  was  what?" 

"Don't!"  she  exclaimed  with  impatience.  *  And 
then  she  looked  up  and  down  the  street,  where  the 
constant  stream  of  strangers  passed.  She  felt  for- 
lorn, alone.  She  turned  again  to  Baron  as  to  a  final 
refuge.  "I  behaved  myself,'^  she  said.  "I  didn't 
wait  to  ask  what  was  the  matter — ^I  didn't  say  a 
word.  But  I  knew  something  had  happened.  I 
could  hear  your  heart  beating.  I  knew  it  was  some- 
thing terrible.    But  you  could  tell  me  now!" 

Baron  guided  her  to  a  chair  and  released  her 
with  a  feeling  of  relief.  His  impulse  was  to  take  his 
departure  and  let  the  incident  end  as  it  might.  But 
that  wouldn't  do,  certainly !  What  would  the  con- 
fectioner do  with  the  child?  Besides,  there  was 
something  about  her 

Through  the  fitful  symphony  of  the  city's  noises 
the  clang  of  an  alarm-bell  sounded. 

The  child  lifted  her  head;  her  eyes  became  wide 
with  excitement.     "There's  a  fire !"  she  exclaimed. 

"Yes,"  admitted  Baron.  "It's  in  the  theatre.  I 
thought  we  ought  to  come  out,  though  of  course  it 
may  not  amoimt  to  anything.  We'll  wait  here  un- 
til the  excitement  is  over,  and  then  we'll  go  out 
and  find  your " 

He  did  not  finish  the  sentence.  He  realized  that 
he  did  not  know  how.    Instead  he  turned  to  a  clerk 

13 


Bonnie  May 

and  ordered  something — ^he  scarcely  knew  what. 
He  was  Hstening  to  those  noises  out  in  the  street; 
he  was  noting,  soon  with  great  relief,  that  they  were 
abating  rapidly.  Clearly  there  had  been  no  real 
danger,  after  all. 

He  led  his  charge  from  the  place  presently.  He 
noticed  that  she  had  not  touched  a  little  dish  of 
something  the  clerk  had  set  before  her. 

On  the  street  again  he  was  surprised  to  perceive 
that  the  normal  activities  of  the  neighborhood  had 
been  resumed.  The  audience  in  the  theatre  had 
been  dismissed  upon  some  pretext  of  a  nature  not 
at  all  terrifying.  The  fire  had  been  extinguished. 
The  lobby  was  deserted.  No  one  was  searching  or 
waiting  for  a  Httle  girl,  or  seemed  to  be  remotely 
interested  in  one. 

"Strange !"  reflected  Baron.  He  was  wholly  out- 
side the  realm  of  make-believe  now.  He  was  amid 
painfully  prosaic  surroundings. 

He  turned  to  his  companion.  "Er — ^your  name 
has  escaped  me  for  the  minute " 

"Bonnie  May." 

"Of  course.  Well,  Bonnie  May,  I  think  I'll  have 
to  take  you  home." 

"Whose  home — ^yours?"  she  asked. 

"Good  gracious,  no !    To  your  own !" 

She  peered  into  the  lobby  searchingly,  the  light 
slowly  fading  from  her  eyes. 

"But  I  haven't  any  home,"  she  said. 


14 


CHAPTER  II 

A  MOMENTOUS  DECISION 

It  was  all  very  well  for  a  young  man  of  an  almost 
painfully  circumspect  type  to  rescue  a  youthful 
female  from  danger.  It  was  a  different  matter, 
however,  when  he  found  himself  walking  along  a 
crowded  thoroughfare,  leading  a  waif  in  a  fantastic 
and  almost  shabby  dress,  and  bringing  upon  him- 
seK  the  curious,  if  not  the  suspicious,  glances  of 
passers-by. 

This  fact  struck  Baron  forcibly  and  unpleasantly. 

"Come,  let's  get  inside  somewhere,"  he  said  to 
his  companion.  He  spoke  almost  abjectly,  as  if  he 
had  been  a  soldier  seeking  a  hiding-place  behind  a 
wall.  "This  place  will  do!"  He  had  espied  a 
haven  in  the  form  of  a  restaurant,  deserted  by  all 
save  two  or  three  young  women  wearing  waitresses*, 
aprons  and  caps. 

Bonnie  May  looked  at  him  inquiringly,  almost 
piteously.  This  movement  was  a  mere  strategy, 
,  she  realized.  It  was  not  a  time  for  eating.  But 
the  ready  speech  of  haK  an  hour  ago  had  deserted 
her,  and  she  entered  the  restaurant,  when  Baron 
opened  the  door  for  her,  without  saying  a  word. 

IS 


Bonnie  May 

Indeed  she  stood  so  forlornly  and  dependency  that 
her  companion  realized  anew  that  he  had  somehow 
committed  an  enormous  blmider. 

"Sit  down  somewhere,"  he  said  almost  impa- 
tiently; and  when  he  noted  the  childish  effort  with 
which  she  wriggled  into  her  chair,  and  tried  hero- 
ically to  assume  a  debonair  manner,  a  feeling  deeper 
than  mere  irritation  seized  him. 

"Dam  the  luck!"  he  ruminated;  "she's  so  little, 
and  so  lovely — ^what's  a  fellow  to  do  in  such  a  case, 
anyway?" 

"It  doesn't  seem  quite  a  suitable  time  to  be  eat- 
ing, does  it?"  she  observed  politely.  The  words 
were  accompanied  by  a  gently  deprecatory  smile 
which  amazed  Baron  by  a  quality  of  odd  sophisti- 
cation and  practised  self-restraint. 

"We  needn't  eat  anything,"  he  said,  more  cor- 
dially. "I  think  we  ought  to  order  something  to 
drink.    You  see,  I  have  to  decide  what  to  do." 

She  adjusted  certain  articles  on  the  table  with 
feminine  nicety.  "That's  very  good  of  you,  I'm 
sure,"  she  said. 

"What  is?" 

"I  mean  your  taking  an  interest  in  me." 

"An  interest  in  you !    What  else  can  I  do?" 

She  propped  her  face  up  in  the  palms  of  her 
hands  and  looked  across  the  table  at  him  medita- 
tively. 

"Don't!"  he  exclaimed.  "I'm  not  used  to  hav- 
ing a  cherub  on  my  hands.    It's  my  own  predica- 

i6 


A  Momentous  Decision 

ment  I'm  thinking  about,  not  yours.  Do  you  drink 
milk?" 

A  waitress  had  approached  and  was  standing  be- 
hind them. 

She  resented  his  brusque  manner,  now  that  the 
waitress  was  there  to  hear.  "I  have  done  such  a 
thing,"  she  said.  "  As  a  rule  I'm  permitted  to  choose 
for  myself." 

"Well,  by  all  means  do,  then." 

She  turned  to  the  waitress  and  lowered  her  voice 
by  a  full  tone.  "A  cup  of  chocolate,  please;  not 
too  thick;  and  some  wafers."  She  faced  Earon 
again  with  a  ready  change  of  countenance  and  voice, 
and  touched  upon  some  trivial  subject  which  he 
recognized  as  a  formal  means  of  dispelling  any  im- 
pression that  there  was  something  unusual  in  their 
relationship  or  appearance. 

"Now,  Bonnie  May,"  he  began,  when  they  were 
alone,  "I  want  you  to  help  me  as  far  as  you  can. 
Who  took  you  to  the  theatre  this  afternoon  ? " 

"I  went  with  Miss  Barry." 

"Good.    Who  is  Miss  Barry?" 

"Miss  Florence  Barry.  You  don't  mean  to  say 
you  don't  know  who  she  is?" 

"I  never  heard  of  her." 

"She's  an  actress.    She's  very  well  known,  too." 

"Very  well.  How  did  she  happen  to  take  you? 
How  did  you  happen  to  be  with  her?" 

"I've  always  been  with  her.  She's  all  I've 
got." 

17 


Bonnie  May 

"We're  getting  along  nicely.  You're  related  to 
her,  I  suppose?" 

"I  couldn't  say.    It's  possible." 

Baron  frowned.  "Your  mother  is  dead?"  he 
asked. 

She  gazed  at  him  with  a  gathering  cloud  in  her 
eyes — a  look  that  was  eloquent  of  secret  sorrow 
and  beseechment.  But  she  made  no  response  in 
words. 

Baron  felt  the  pangs  of  swift  remorse.  "I  sup- 
pose Miss  Barry  will  have  to  do,"  he  said,  with  an 
attempt  at  kindly  brusqueness.  Then — "Can  you 
tell  me  her  address?" 

"I  don't  suppose  she  has  any.  We've  been  doing 
one-night  stands  quite  a  long  time." 

"But  she  must  belong  some  place — ^and  you,  too. 
Where  have  you  been  stopping?" 

"We  only  got  here  yesterday.  I  see  you  don't 
quite  understand.  We've  just  been  moving  from 
place  to  place  all  the  time." 

Baron  pondered.  "Have  you  always  lived  in 
hotels,  in  one  town  or  another?"  he  finally  asked. 

"Hotels — and  theatres  and  rooming-houses,  and 
trains  and  even  wagons  and  carriages.  Every  kind 
of  place." 

"I  see.    Well,  where  did  you  stop  last  night?" 

"We  had  a  room  somewhere.  I  really  couldn't 
tell  you  where.  It  was  the  meanest  kind  of  a  place 
— empty  and  cold — quite  a  distance  from  the 
theatre.    It  was  in  a  long  row  of  houses,  built  one 

i8 


A  Momentous  Decision 

up  against  another,  miles  and  miles  long,  with 
cheap,  little  old  stores  or  shops  down-stairs,  and 
sometimes  rooms  above  that  you  could  rent.  We 
were  just  getting  ready  to  look  for  an  engagement, 
you  know,  and  we  were  broke.  We  couldn't  afford 
to  go  to  a  nice  place." 

The  fine  show  of  bravery  was  beginning  to  pass. 
She  felt  that  she  was  being  questioned  unsym- 
pathetically. 

Baron,  too,  realized  that  his  questions  must  seem 
to  lack  friendliness. 

The  waiter  brought  chocolate  and  coffee,  and 
Baron  dropped  sugar  into  his  cup,  thoughtfully 
watching  the  little  bubbles  that  arose.  Then, 
much  to  Bonnie  May's  surprise,  and  not  a  little  to 
her  reUef,  he  laughed  softly. 

"What  is  it?"  she  asked  eagerly/ 

"Oh,  nothing." 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  I'm  sure,"  was  Bonnie 
May's  chilling  rejoinder.  She  began  to  sip  her 
chocolate  with  impressive  elegance. 

"Why  not?"  reflected  Baron.  He  was  drawing 
a  picture  of  Bonnie  May  in  his  mother's  presence 
— ^his  mother,  who  was  the  most  punctilious  of  all 
elderly  ladies,  and  whose  genuine  goodness  of  heart 
was  usually  quite  concealed  by  the  studied  way  in 
which  she  adhered  to  the  unbending  social  codes 
that  must  govern  a  Baron — or,  rather,  a  Boone. 
She  was  a  Boone — of  the  Virginia  Boones — ^when 
she  married  Baron's  father;    a  beauty  who  had 

19 


Bonnie  May 

been  wealthy,  despite  the  disintegration  of  the 
Boone  fortunes  when  the  Civil  War  freed  the 
slaves. 

He  pictured  Bonnie  May  in  the  dim  old  mansion 
that  was  his  home — ^in  that  aged  house  that  never 
knew  the  voices  of  children;  in  which  even  adults 
seemed  always  to  be  speaking  in  low,  measured 
tones. 

"The  governess  isn't  as  bad  as  she  would  like 
to  appear,"  was  his  irreverent  meditation,  which 
still  related  to  his  mother.  "And  Flora  would  take 
my  part.    As  for  the  governor " 

He  turned  to  the  child  with  decision.  He  re- 
alized, finally,  that  the  question  of  treating  her 
just  as  if  she  were  any  other  lost  child  was  not  to 
be  considered. 

"Bonnie  May,"  he  said,  "I  think  you'd  better 
goj^home  with  me  for  the  time  being.  We  can 
put  something  in  the  paper,  you  know,  and  I'll 
find  out  if  Miss  Barry  has  left  any  word  with  the 
poUce.  But  that  can't  be  done  in  a  minute,  and  of 
course  we  can't  sit  here  all  afternoon.  Come,  let's 
go  home." 

The  waitress  came  forward  to  assist  when  she 
saw  Bonnie  May  trying  to  cKmb  down  from  her 
chair  without  loss  of  dignity. 

"It  was  very  nice,"  said  the  child,  addressing 
the  waitress.  She  was  smiling  angehcally.  "I 
think  we're  ready,"  she  added,  turning  toward 
Baron. 

so 


A  Momentous  Decision 

She  tried  to  catch  step  with  him  as  they  moved 
toward  the  door. 

And  Baron  could  not  possibly  have  known  that 
at  that  very  moment  his  mother  and  his  sister 
Flora  were  sitting  in  an  upper  room  of  the  mansion, 
brooding  upon  the  evil  days  that  had  fallen  upon 
the  family  fortunes. 

Theirs  was  a  very  stately  and  admirable  home — 
viewed  from  within.  But  it  was  practically  all 
that  the  family  possessed,  and  the  neighborhood — 
well,  the  neighborhood  had  wholly  lost  eUgibiHty 
as  a  place  for  residences  long  ago. 

All  their  friends,  who  had  formerly  been  their 
neighbors,  had  moved  away,  one  after  another, 
when  commerce  had  descended  upon  the  street, 
with  its  grime  and  smoke,  and  only  the  Barons  re- 
mained. Certainly  cities  grow  without  any  regard 
at  all  for  the  dignity  of  old  mansions  or  old  famihes. 

And  while  the  ground  on  which  the  mansion 
stood  had  increased  in  value  imtil  it  was  worth  a 
considerable  fortune,  it  was  a  carefully  guarded 
family  secret  that  the  actual  supply  of  funds  in  the 
family  treasury  had  dwindled  down  to  next  to 
nothing. 

One  permanent  investment  brought  Mrs.  Baron 
a  few  hundreds  annually,  and  Mr.  Baron  drew 
a  modest  salary  from  a  position  with  the  city, 
which  he  had  held  many  years  without  complaint 
or  lapses.    But  the  fortune  that  used  to  be  theirs 

21 


Bonnie  May 

had  vanished  mysteriously  in  trips  to  Europe  and 
in  the  keeping  up  of  those  social  obHgations  which 
they  could  not  disregard.  The  formal  social  ac- 
tivities of  the  mansion  had  become  wholly  things 
of  the  past,  and  within  the  past  year  or  two  the 
visits  of  old  friends,  now  living  out  in  commodious 
new  residential  districts,  had  become  few  and  far 
between.  Really  it  seemed  that  the  Barons  had 
been  forgotten. 

Flora,  looking  suddenly  into  her  mother's  brood- 
ing, fine  old  eyes,  and  quite  accurately  reading  the 
thought  that  was  beyond  them,  sighed  and  arose. 

"It's  the  neighborhood,"  she  said — quite  am- 
biguously, it  would  have  seemed,  since  not  a  word 
had  passed  between  them  for  nearly  half  an  hour. 

But  Mrs.  Baron  responded:  "Do  you  think  so?'* 
And  her  face  stiffened  with  new  resolve  not  to  re- 
pine, even  if  the  currents  of  life  had  drawn  away 
from  them  and  left  them  desolate. 

Then  an  automobile  drew  up  in  front  of  the 
mansion  and  Flora's  face  brightened.  "They've 
come!"  she  said.  "I  won't  be  gone  long,  mother," 
and  she  hurried  away  to  her  room. 

A  moment  later  Mrs.  Baron  heard  her  going 
down  the  stairs  and  closing  the  front  door. 

She  stood  at  the  window  and  watched  Flora  get 
into  the  shining  electric  coupe  of  the  McKelvey 
girls.  She  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  McKelvey 
girls'  animated  faces,  and  then  the  elegant  little 
vehicle  moved  away. 

22 


A  Momentous  Decision 

Still  she  stood  at  the  window.  Her  face  was 
rather  proud  and  defiant.  And  then  after  a  time 
it  became,  suddenly,  quite  blank. 

There  was  Victor  coming  up  the  stone  steps  into 
the  yard,  and  he  was  leading  a  waif  by  the  hand. 
Only  the  word  "waif"  did  not  occur  to  Mrs. 
Baron. 

"Well!"  she  exclaimed,  her  body  rigid,  her  eyes 
staring  out  from  beneath  pugnacious  brows.  "Vic- 
tor and  an  impossible  little  female!" 


23 


CHAPTER  III 
MRS.  BARON  DECIDES 

As  Baron  felt  for  his  key  he  stood  an  instant  and 
surveyed  the  other  side  of  the  street,  up  and  down 
the  block.    A  frown  gathered  on  his  forehead. 

Bonnie  May,  keyed  to  a  very  high  pitch,  noted 
that  frowning  survey  of  the  line  of  buildings  across 
the  way.    "Something  wrong?"  she  asked. 

"No,  certainly  not,"  responded  Baron;  but  to 
himself  he  was  admitting  that  there  was  some- 
thing very  wrong  indeed.  It  was  the  neighbor- 
hood. This  was  his  conclusion,  just  as  it  had  been 
Flora's. 

He  had  become  conscious  of  the  frowning,  grimy 
fronts;  the  windows  which  were  like  eyes  turning 
baleful  glances  upon  the  thoroughfare.  The  grass- 
plots,  the  flower-beds,  the  suitable  carpets  spread 
for  the  feet  of  spring — ^what  had  become  of  them? 

A  dissolute-appearing  old  woman  was  scrubbing 
the  ancient  stone  steps  in  one  place  across  the  way. 
She  suggested  better  days  just  as  obviously  as  did 
the  stones,  worn  away  by  generations  of  feet.  And 
a  httle  farther  along  there  were  glaring  plate- 
glass  fronts  bearing  gilt  legends  which  fairly 
shrieked  those  commercial  words — which  ought  to 

24 


Mrs.  Baron  Decides 

have  been  whispered  from  side  doors,  Baron 
thought — Shoes,  and  Cloaks,  and  Hats. 

What  sort  of  a  vicinity  was  this  in  which  to 
have  a  home  ? 

Baron  wondered  why  the  question  had  not  oc- 
curred to  him  before.  He  did  not  reahze  that  he 
was  viewing  the  street  now  for  the  first  time  through 
the  eyes  of  a  child  who  owed  the  neighborhood  no 
sort  of  sentimental  loyalty. 

"Here  we  are!"  he  exclaimed  as  he  produced  his 
key;  but  his  tone  was  by  no  means  as  cheerful  as  he 
tried  to  make  it. 

Bonnie  May  hung  back  an  instant,  as  a  butterfly 
might  pause  at  the  entrance  of  a  dark  wood.  She 
glanced  into  the  dark  vestibule  before  her  inquir- 
ingly.   Her  eyebrows  were  critically  elevated. 

"Is  it  a — a  rooming-house?"  she  faltered. 

"Nonsense!  It's  always  been  called  a  mansion. 
It's  a  charming  old  place,  too — I  assure  you! 
Come,  we  ought  not  to  stand  here." 

He  was  irritated.  More  so  than  he  had  been 
before  when  his  companion's  look  or  word  had 
served  as  a  reminder  that  he  was  doing  an  ex- 
traordinary, if  not  a  foohsh,  thing.  He  would  not 
have  admitted  it,  but  he  was  nervous,  too.  His 
mother  hadn't  been  at  all  amiable  of  late.  There 
wasn't  any  telling  what  she  would  do  when  he 
said  to  her,  in  effect:  "Here's  a  lost  child.  I  don't 
know  anything  at  all  about  her,  but  I  expect  you 
to  help  her." 

as 


Bonnie  May 

Suppose  she  should  decide  to  express  her  frank 
opinion  of  waifs,  and  of  people  who  brought  them 
home? 

He  fumbled  a  little  as  he  unlocked  the  door. 
His  heart  was  fairly  pounding. 

"There  you  are!"  he  exclaimed.  His  voice  was 
as  gayly  hospitable  as  he  could  make  it,  but  his 
secret  thought  was:  "If  she  weren't  so — so — 
Oh,  darn  it,  if  she  were  like  any  other  child  I'd 
shut  her  out  this'  minute  and  let  that  be  the  end 
of  it." 

The  hall  was  shadowy;  yet  even  in  the  dim  light 
Baron  perceived  that  the  marble  balustrade  of  the 
stairway  was  strangely  cold  and  unattractive — and 
he  had  always  considered  this  one  of  the  fine  things 
about  the  house.  So,  too,  was  the  drawing-room 
gloomy  almost  to  darkness.  The  blinds  were  down 
as  always,  save  on  special  occasions.  And  Baron 
realized  that  the  family  had  long  ago  ceased  to 
care  about  looking  out  upon  the  street,  or  to  per- 
mit the  street  to  get  a  glimpse  of  the  Hfe  within. 
Indeed,  he  realized  with  a  bit  of  a  shock  that  the 
home  life  had  been  almost  entirely  removed  to  the 
upper  floor — as  if  the  premises  were  being  sub- 
merged by  a  flood. 

He  lifted  one  of  the  blinds.  .  "Sit  down,"  he  said. 
"I'U  find  mother." 

"What  do  you  use  this  room  for?"  inquired 
Bonnie  May.  She  was  slightly  pale.  She  seemed 
to  be  fortifjong  herself  for  weird  developments. 

26 


Mrs.  Baron  Decides 

"I  hardly  know,"  Baron  confessed.  "I  think 
we  don't  use  it  very  much  at  all." 

"You  might  think  from  the  properties  that  it 
was  a  rooming-house."  She  had  wriggled  into  a 
chair  that  was  too  high  for  her.  Her  curiosity  was 
unconcealed.  Baron  could  see  by  the  look  in  her 
eyes  that  she  had  not  meant  her  comment  to  be 
derisive,  but  only  a  statement  of  fact. 

"Possibly  you  haven't  seen  many  quite  old, 
thoroughly  estabUshed  homes,"  he  suggested.  The 
remark  wasn't  meant  at  all  as  a  rebuke.  It  repre- 
sented the  attitude  of  mind  with  which  Baron  had 
always  been  famihar. 

"Anyway,"  she  persisted,  "it  wouldn't  do  for 
an  up-to-date  interior.  It  might  do  for  an  Ibsen 
play." 

Baron,  about  to  leave  the  room  to  find  his 
mother,  tmned  sharply.  "What  in  the  world  do 
you  know  about  Ibsen  plays?"  he  asked  sharply. 
"Besides,  you're  not  in  a  theatre!  If  you'll  excuse 
me  a  minute " 

There  were  footsteps  on  the  stairway,  and  Baron's 
countenance  imderwent  a  swift  change.  He  with- 
drew a  Httle  way  into  the  room,  so  that  he  stood 
close  to  Bonnie  May.  He  was  trying  to  look  con- 
ciHatory  when  his  mother  appeared  in  the  door- 
way; but  guilt  was  reaUy  the  expression  that  was 
stamped  on  his  face. 

It  was  a  very  austere-looking  old  lady'  who 
looked  into  the  room.     "Good  evening,"  she  said, 

27 


Bonnie  May 

as  if  she  were  addressing  strangers.  Still,  Baron 
detected  a  wryly  humorous  smUe  on  her  lips.  She 
stood  quite  still,  critically  inspecting  her  son  ^as 
well  as  his  companion. 

Baron  was  glad  that  Bonnie  May  sprang  to  her 
feet  instantly  with  comprehension  and  respect. 
"This  is  my  mother,  Mrs.  Baron,"  he  said  to  the 
child;  and  to  the  quizzical  old  lady,  who  regarded 
him  with  a  steady  question,  he  added  fooHshly, 
"this  is  a  httle  girl  I  have  brought  home." 

"So  I  should  have  surmised."  Her  tone  was 
hardening.  Her  attitude  was  fearfully  unyielding. 
It  seemed  to  Baron  that  her  gray  hair,  which  rose 
high  and  free  from  her  forehead,  had  never  im- 
parted so  much  severity  to  her  features  before,  and 
that  her  black  eyes  had  never  seemed  so  imperious. 

But  Bonnie  May  was  advancing  very  prettily. 
"How  do  you  do,  Mrs.  Baron?"  she  inquired. 
She  was  smiling  almost  radiantly.  "I  do  hope  I 
don't  intrude,"  she  added. 

Mrs.  Baron  looked  down  at  her  with  frank  amaze- 
ment. For  the  moment  she  forgot  the  presence  of 
her  son.    She  took  the  child's  outstretched  hand. 

Perhaps  the  touch  of  a  child's  fingers  to  a  woman 
who  has  had  children  but  who  has  them  no  longer 
is  magical.  Perhaps  Bonnie  May  was  quite  as  ex- 
traordinary as  Victor  Baron  had  thought  her.  At 
any  rate,  Mrs.  Baron's  face  suddenly  softened. 
She  drew  the  child  into  the  protection  of  her  arm 
and  held  her  close,  looking  at  her  son. 

28 


'Good  evening,"  she  said,  as  if  she  were  addressing  strangers. 


Mrs.  Baron  Decides 

"Who  in  the  world  is  she?"  she  asked,  and 
Baron  saw  that  her  eyes  were  touched  with  a  Hght 
which  was  quite  unfamihar  to  him. 

"I  was  going  to  tell  you,"  he  faltered,  and  then 
he  remembered  that  there  was  practically  nothing 
he  could  tell.  He  saved  time  by  suggesting:  "Per- 
haps she  could  go  up-stairs  a  minute,  while  I  talk 
to  you  alone?" 

"Would  it  be  wrong  for  me  to  hear?"  This  was 
from  the  child.  "You  know  I  might  throw  a  little 
light  on  the  subject  myself." 

Mrs.  Baron  blushed  rosily  and  placed  her  hand 
over  her  mouth,  wrenchiug  a  swift  smile  therefrom. 
She  had  heard  of  precocious  children.  She  disap- 
proved of  them.  Neither  of  her  own  children  had 
been  in  the  least  precocious.  "Who  ever  heard 
anything  hke  that?"  she  demanded  of  her  son  in 
frank  amazement. 

"There  are  some  things  I  ought  to  say  to  my 
mother  alone,"  declared  Baron.  He  placed  a  per- 
suasive hand  on  the  child's  shoulder.  "Afterward 
you  can  talk  the  matter  over  together." 

Mrs.  Baron's  doubts  were  returning.  "I  don't 
see  why  we  should  make  any  mysteries,"  she  said. 
She  looked  at  the  child  again,  and  again  all  her 
defenses  were  laid  low.  "I  suppose  she  might  go 
up-stairs  to  my  sitting-room,  if  there's  anything 
to  say.  Tell  me,  child,"  and  she  bent  quite  gra- 
ciously over  the  small  guest,  "what  is  your  name?" 

"I  am  Bonnie  May,"  was  the  response.     The 

29 


Bonnie  May 

child  was  inordinately  proud  of  her  name,  but  she 
did  not  wish  to  be  vainglorious  now.  She  lowered 
her  eyes  with  an  obviously  theatrical  effect,  assum- 
ing a  nice  modesty. 

Mrs.  Baron  observed  sharply,  and  nodded  her 
head. 

"That's  a  queer  name  for  a  human  being,"  was 
her  comment.  She  looked  at  her  son  as  if  she  sud- 
denly had  a  bad  taste  in  her  mouth.  "It  sounds 
like  a  doll-baby's  name." 

The  child  was  shocked  by  the  unfriendliness — 
the  rudeness — of  this.  Mrs.  Baron  followed  up 
her  words  with  more  disparagement  in  the  way  of 
a  steady,  disapproving  look.  Precocious  children 
ought  to  be  snubbed,  she  thought. 

The  good  lady  would  not  have  offended  one  of 
her  own  age  without  a  better  reason;  but  so  many 
good  people  do  not  greatly  mind  offending  a  child. 

"You  know,"  said  Bonnie  May,  "I  really  didn't 
have  anything  to  do  with  picking  out  my  own 
name.  Somebody  else  did  it  for  me.  And  maybe 
they  decided  on  it  because  they  thought  it  would 
look  good  on  the  four-sheets." 

"On  the " 

But  Baron  swiftly  interposed. 

"We  can  go  into  matters  of  that  sort  some  other 
time,"  he  said.  "I  think  it  would  be  better  for 
you  to  leave  mother  and  me  alone  for  a  minute 
just  now." 

Bonnie  May  went  out  of  the  room  in  response 

30 


Mrs.  Baron  Decides 

to  Baron's  gesture.  "I'll  show  you  the  way,"  he 
said,  and  as  he  began  to  guide  her  up  the  stairs 
she  turned  toward  him,  glancing  cautiously  over  his 
shoulder  to  the  room  they  had  just  quitted. 

"BeHeve  me,"  she  whispered,  "that's  the  first 
time  I've  had  stage  fright  in  years."  She  mounted 
three  or  four  steps  and  then  paused  again.  "You 
know,"  she  confided,  turning  again,  "she  makes 
you  think  of  a  kind  of  honest  sister  to  Lady  Mac- 
beth." 

Baron  stopped  short,  his  hand  on  the  balustrade. 
"Bonnie  May,"  he  demanded,  "will  you  tell  me 
how  old  you  are?" 

He  had  a  sudden  fear  that  she  was  one  of  those 
pitiable  creatiu-es  whose  minds  grow  old  but  whose 
bodies  remain  the  same  from  year  to  year. 

"I  don't  know,"  she  rephed,  instantly  troubled. 
"Miss  Barry  never  would  tell  me." 

"Well,  how  far  back  can  you  remember?" 

"Oh,  quite  a  long  time.  I  know  I  had  a  real 
speaking  part  as  long  as  four  seasons  ago.  I've 
been  doing  little  Eva  off  and  on  over  two  years." 

He  was  greatly  reHeved.  "It  seems  to  me,"  he 
said  severely,  "that  you  know  about  plays  which 
a  Httle  girl  ought  not  to  know  anything  about." 

"  Oh !  Well,  I  was  with  Miss  Barry  in  lots  of  plays 
that  I  didn't  have  any  part  in,  unless  it  might  be 
to  help  out  with  the  populace,  or  something  like 
that.  And  we  did  stock  work  for  a  while,  with  a 
new  play  every  week." 

31 


Bonnie  May 

Somehow  this  speech  had  the  effect  of  restoring 
her  to  favor  with  Baron.  Her  offenses  were  clearly 
unconscious,  unintended,  while  her  alertness,  her 
discernment,  were  very  genuine  and  native.  What 
a  real  human  being  she  was,  after  all,  despite  her 
training  in  the  unrealities  of  life !  And  how  quick 
she  was  to  see  when  she  had  offended,  and  how 
ready  with  contrition  and  apology!  Surely  that 
was  the  sort  of  thing  that  made  for  good  breeding 
— even  from  the  standpoint  of  a  Baron  or  a  Boone ! 

They  traversed  the  upper  hall  until  they  reached 
an  immense  front  room  which  was  filled  with  the 
mellow  sunlight  of  the  late  afternoon,  and  which 
was  invitingly  informal  and  imtidy  in  all  its  aspects. 
It  was  one  of  those  rooms  which  seem  alive,  because 
of  many  things  which  speak  eloquently  of  recent 
occupation  and  of  the  certainty  of  their  being  oc- 
cupied immediately  again. 

A  square  piano,  pearl  inlaid  and  venerable,  caught 
Bonnie  May's  eyes. 

"Oh,  how  lovely!"  she  exclaimed.  She  stood  a 
moment,  pressing  her  hands  to  her  cheeks.  "Yes," 
she  added  musingly,  "I  can  actually  see  them." 

"See  whom?"  Baron  demanded,  slightly  im- 
patient. 

"The  nice,  sweet  girls,  wearing  crinoline,  and 
dancing  with  their  arms  around  one  another's 
waists,  and  one  of  them  sitting  at  the  piano  play- 
ing, and  looking  over  her  shoulder  at  the  others. 
There  are  tender  smiles  on  their  lips,  and  their 

32 


Mrs.  Baron  Decides 

eyes  are  shining  like  anything.  They  are  so  dear 
and  happy ! " 

Baron  frowned.  Why  should  the  child  associate 
the  house,  his  home,  only  with  things  so  remote 
with  respect  to  time  and  place  ?  It  was  a  jealously 
guarded  family  secret  that  life  was  relentlessly 
passing  on,  leaving  them  stranded  in  old  ways. 
But  was  a  child — a  waif  picked  up  in  pity,  or  in  a 
spirit  of  adventure — to  wrest  the  secret  from  among 
hidden  things  and  flaunt  it  in  his  face? 

She  had  gone  into  the  big  bay  window  and  was 
standing  with  one  hand  on  the  long  willow  seat, 
covered  with  pale-hued  cushions.  For  the  moment 
she  was  looking  down  upon  the  bit  of  grass-plot 
below. 

"Make  yourself  at  home,"  invited  Baron.  "I 
won't  be  long." 

He  went  back  to  his  mother.  He  wished  she 
might  have  heard  what  the  child  had  said  about 
the  girls  who  were  dancing,  far  away  in  the  past. 

"Well,  who  is  she?"  was  Mrs.  Baron's  abrupt, 
matter-of-fact  question. 

"I  don't  know.  That's  the  plain  truth.  I'm 
thinking  more  about  what  she  is — or  what  she  seems 
to  be." 

He  described  the  incident  in  the  theatre,  and 
explained  how  he  had  been  in  fear  of  a  panic.  "I 
felt  obhged  to  carry  her  out,"  he  concluded  rather 
lamely. 

"I  quite  see  that.     But  that  didn't  make  you 

33 


Bonnie  May 

responsible  for  her  in  any  way,"  Mrs.  Baron  re- 
minded him. 

"Well  now,  governess,  do  be  friendly.  I'm  not 
responsible  for  her — I  know  that.  But  you  see, 
she  appears  to  be  alone  in  the  world,  except  for  a 
Miss  Barry,  an  actress.  I  couldn't  find  her.  Of 
com-se  she'll  be  located  to-morrow.  That's  all 
there  is  to  it.  And  let's  not  be  so  awfuUy  particular. 
There  can't  be  any  harm  in  having  the  Uttle  thing 
in  the  house  overnight.  Honestly,  don't  you  think 
she  is  wonderful  ?  " 

Mrs.  Baron  was  dihgently  nursing  her  wrath. 
"That  isn't  the  question,"  she  argued.  "I  dare 
say  a  good  many  unidentified  children  are  wonder- 
ful. But  that  would  scarcely  justify  us  in  turning 
our  house  into  an  orphan  asylum." 

"Oh!  An  orphan  asylum!"  echoed  Baron  al- 
most despairingly.  "Look  here,  mother,  it  was 
just  by  chance  that  I  ran  across  the  Httle  thing, 
and  under  the  circumstances  what  was  I  going  to 
do  with  her?" 

"There  were  the  police,  at  least." 

"Yes,  I  thought  of  that." 

He  went  to  the  window  and  stood  with  his  back 
to  her.  For  a  full  minute  there  was  silence  in  the 
room,  and  then  Baron  spoke.  He  did  not  turn 
around. 

"Yes,  there  were  the  police,"  he  repeated,  "but 
I  couldn't  help  remembering  that  there  was  also 
I — and  we.    I  had  an  idea  we  could  do  a  good  deal 

34 


Mrs.  Baron  Decides 

better  than  the  police,  in  a  case  like  this.  I  don't 
understand  how  women  feel,  mother,  but  I  can't 
help  remembering  that  every  Uttle  girl  is  going  to 
be  a  woman  some  day.  And  I've  no  doubt  that  the 
kind  of  woman  she  is  going  to  be  will  be  governed 
a  good  deal  by  seemingly  trivial  events.  I  don't 
see  why  it  isn't  likely  that  Bonnie  May's  whole 
future  may  depend  upon  the  way  things  fall  out 
for  her  now,  when  she's  really  helpless  and  alone 
for  the  first  time  in  her  life.  I  think  it's  likely  she'll 
remember  to  the  end  of  her  days  that  people  were 
kind  to  her — or  that  they  weren't.  We've  nothing 
to  be  afraid  of  at  the  hands  of  a  little  bit  of  a  girl. 
At  the  most,  we'll  have  to  give  her  a  bed  for  the 
night  and  a  bite  to  eat  and  just  a  little  friendliness. 
It's  she  who  must  be  afraid  of  us! — ^afraid  that, 
we'll  be  thoughtless,  or  snobbish,  and  refuse  to  give 
her  the  comfort  she  needs,  now  that  she's  in 
trouble." 

He  paused. 

"A  speech!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Baron,  and  Baron 
could  not  fail  to  note  the  irony  in  her  voice.  She 
added,  in  the  same  tone:  "The  haughty  mother 
yields  to  the  impassioned  plea  of  her  noble  son!" 

Baron  turned  and  observed  that  she  was  smiling 
rather  maliciously. 

"You'd  better  go  up  and  look  after  her,"  she: 
added.    "Flora  will  be  home  before  long.". 


35 


CHAPTER  IV 
A  CRISIS 

At  five  o'clock,  during  a  brief  lull  in  the  usual 
noises  on  the  avenue,  there  was  a  faint  and  aris- 
tocratic murmur  of  machinery  in  front  of  the  man- 
sion. The  McKelvey  girls'  motor-car  drew  up  at 
the  curb,  and  Miss  Flora  Baron  alighted. 

The  Misses  McKelvey  had  come  for  her  early  in 
the  afternoon  and  had  driven  her  out  to  their  sub- 
urban home,  where  she  was  always  treated  almost 
like  one  of  the  family. 

She  was  the  sort  of  girl  that  people  love  un- 
questioningly:  gentle,  low- voiced,  seemingly  happy, 
grateful,  gracious.  Besides,  there  was  a  social  kin- 
ship between  the  two  famihes.  Mrs.  McKelvey 
had  been  a  Miss  Van  Sant  before  her  marriage, 
and  the  Van  Sants  and  the  Boones  had  been  neigh- 
bors for  a  century  or  more. 

"Good-by,  Flora,"  called  the  McKelvey  girls 
almost  in  one  voice,  as  their  guest  hurried  toward 
her  gate.  Their  cheerful  faces  were  framed  by  the 
open  door  of  their  shining  coup6.  And  Flora  looked 
back  over  her  shoulder  and  responded  gayly,  and 
then  hurried  up  into  the  vestibule  of  the  mansion. 

She  carried  an  armful  of  roses  which  the  McKel- 

36 


A  Crisis 

veys  had  insisted  upon  her  bringing  home:  roses 
with  long  stems,  from  which  many  of  the  green, 
wax-like  leaves  had  not  been  removed. 

When  she  entered  the  hall  she  paused  and  sighed. 
Now  that  her  friends  could  not  see  her  any  longer, 
she  abandoned  a  certain  gladsome  bearing.  It  was 
so  lovely  out  at  the  McKelveys',  and  it  was  so — so 
different,  here  at  home.  She  had  the  feeling  one 
might  have  upon  entering  a  dungeon. 

The  fingers  of  her  right  hand  closed  upon  the 
dull-green-and-silver  tailored  skirt  she  was  wearing, 
and  one  foot  was  already  planted  on  the  first  step 
of  the  stairway.  She  meant  to  offer  the  roses  to 
her  mother,  who  would  be  in  the  sitting-room  up- 
stairs. 

But  before  she  had  mounted  to  the  second  step 
she  heard  her  brother  Victor's  voice  in  the  dining- 
room,  and  she  knew  by  his  manner  of  speaking  that 
he  was  at  the  telephone. 

This  circumstance  in  itself  was  not  remarkable, 
but  he  was  asking  for  poHce  headquarters ! 

Visions  of  a  burglary  passed  before  her  mind, 
and  she  wondered  whimsically  what  anybody  could 
find  in  the  house  worth  stealing.  Her  brother's 
next  words  reached  her  clearly: 

"Oh,  I  couldn't  say  just  how  old  she  is.  Say 
about  ten.  Somebody  must  have  reported  that 
she  is  lost.  .  .  .  Well,  that  certainly  seems 
strange.  .  .  ." 

Flora  changed  her  mind  about  going  up-stairs 

37 


Bonnie  May 

immediately.  Instead,  she  turned  toward  the 
dining-room.  Victor  was  continuing  his  message: 
"Are  you  sure  such  a  report  hasn't  been  made  at 
one  of  the  substations?"  And  after  a  brief  inter- 
val there  was  the  sound  of  the  receiver  being  hung 
up. 

However,  when  Flora  entered  the  dining-room 
her  brother  was  speaking  at  the  telephone  again. 
More  about  a  little  girl.  "Mr.  Thornburg's  office? 
Mr.  Thornburg?  This  is  Baron  speaking.  Say — 
has  anybody  spoken  to  you  about  losing  a  little 
girl  this  afternoon?" 

Flora  perceived  that  he  was  deeply  concerned; 
his  attitude  was  even  strikingly  purposeful — and 
.Victor  usually  appeared  to  have  no  definite  pur- 
poses at  all. 

"Yes,"  he  continued,  clearly  in  answer  to  words 
from  the  other  end  of  the  wire,  "I  brought  her 
home  with  me.  I  didn't  know  what  else  to  do.  I 
thought  somebody  might  have  inquired  at  the 
theatre  about  her.  If  they  do,  you'll  let  me  know 
right  away,  won't  you?  She'll  probably  be  with 
us  here  until  she's  claimed." 

He  hung  up  the  receiver.  His  eyes  were  un- 
usually bright. 

"Here?    Who?"  demanded  Flora. 

Baron  beamed  upon  her.  "Flora!"  he  cried. 
"I'm  glad  you've  come.  Something  has  hap- 
pened!" 

"Who's  here?" 

38 


A  Crisis 

"The  renowned  actress,  Bonnie  May." 

"Please  tell  me !"  she  begged,  as  if  he  had  made 
no  response  at  all. 

"A  Httle  lost  girl."    Then  Baron  briefly  explained. 

Miss  Baron's  eyes  fairly  danced.  "What  an  ad- 
venture!"   She  added  presently:  "Is  she — nice?" 

"Nice?  That's  a  woman's  first  question  every 
time,  isn't  it?"  Baron  reflected.  "I  suppose  so. 
I  know  she's  pretty — the  very  prettiest  thing ! " 

"And  that's  a  man's  first  consideration,  of  course. 
What  did  mother  say?" 

"Mother  is — resigned."  They  moved  toward 
the  stairway.  "Try  to  persuade  mother  that  a 
child  doesn't  count,"  Baron  urged.  "I'm  sure 
Mrs.  Grundy  never  had  any  children.  None  like 
Bonnie  May,  anyway.  When  you've  once  seen 
her " 

They  were  ascending  the  stairway  eagerly,  whis- 
pering. A  dozen  years  at  least  seemed  to  have 
sHpped  from  their  shoulders.  They  entered  Mrs. 
Baron's  sitting-room  quite  eagerly. 

Mrs.  Baron  and  Bonnie  May  were  sitting  quite 
close  together,  the  guest  in  a  low  chair  that  was 
Flora's.  Mrs.  Baron  was  maintaining  the  role  of 
indulgent  but  overriden  oracle;  Bonnie  May  was 
amiably  inclined  to  make  allowances.  They  were 
conversing  in  a  rather  sedate  fashion. 

"My  sister.  Flora,  Bonnie  May,"  said  Baron. 

The  child  came  forward  eagerly.  "How  lovely!" 
she  exclaimed,  extending  her  hand. 

39 


Bonnie  May 

Flora  regarded  the  child  with  smiling  eyes.  "Oh ! 
you  mean  the  roses,"  she  said.  "Yes,  they  are." 
But  she  did  not  look  at  the  flowers  on  her  arm. 
She  pushed  a  pennon-Hke  fragment  of  veil  away 
from  her  face  and  smiled  quietly  at  the  child. 

"I  didn't  mean  them,"  explained  Bonnie  May. 
"I  meant  it  was  lovely  that  you  should  be — that 
I'm  to  have —  Do  excuse  me,  I  mean  that  you 
are  lovely!" 

Only  an  instant  longer  Miss  Baron  remained  as 
if  happily  spellbound.  A  breath  that  was  fragrant 
and  cool  emanated  from  her  and  her  roses.  The 
hue  of  pleasure  slowly  deepened  in  her  cheeks. 

"You  dear  child!"  she  said  at  last,  the  speU 
broken,  "I  can't  remember  when  anybody  has 
said  such  a  thing  to  me  before." 

She  laid  the  roses  in  her  mother's  lap.  "And 
to  think  we're  to  keep  her!"  she  added. 

"Overnight,"  Mrs.  Baron  made  haste  to  say. 
"Yes,  she  is  to  be  our  guest  until  to-morrow." 

"But  nobody  has  inquired  for  her,"  said  Flora. 
"Victor's  been  telephoning.  The  poHce  and  the 
people  at  the  theatre " 

"Where  did  you  get  such  beautiful  roses?"  in- 
quired Mrs.  Baron,  wholly  by  way  of  interruption. 
The  arch  of  her  eyebrows  was  as  a  weather-signal 
which  Flora  never  disregarded.  She  changed  the 
subject.  She  had  much  to  say  about  her  ride. 
But  her  eyes  kept  straying  back  to  Bonnie  May, 
who   remained    silent,    her   body   leaning    slightly 

40 


A  Crisis 

forward,  her  head  pitched  back,  her  eyes  devour- 
ing Miss  Baron's  face.  The  attitude  was  so  touch- 
ingly  childUke  that  Flora  had  visions  of  herself 
in  a  big  rocking-chair,  putting  the  little  thing  to 
sleep,  or  telling  her  stories.  "Only  until  to-morrow," 
her  mother  had  said,  but  no  one  was  asking  for  the 
child  anywhere.    Of  course  she  would  stay  until — 

until 

"Yes,"  she  said  absent-mindedly,  in  response  to 
a  question  by  her  mother,  "they  brought  me  home 
in  their  car.  They  were  so  lovely  to  me!"  Her 
eyes  strayed  back  to  Bonnie  May,  whose  rapt 
gaze  was  fixed  upon  her.  The  child  flushed  and 
smiled  angeHcally. 

K  any  constraint  was  felt  during  the  dinner- 
hour,  Bonnie  May  was  evidently  less  affected  than 
the  others  at  table. 

The  one  test  which  might  have  been  regarded 
as  a  critical  one — the  appearance  of  the  head  of 
the  household — ^was  easily  met. 

Mr.  Baron  came  home  a  Httle  late  and  imme- 
diately disappeared  to  dress  for  dinner.  Bonnie 
May  did  not  get  even  a  ghmpse  of  him  until  the 
family  took  their  places  at  table. 

"Hello!  Who  said  there  weren't  any  more 
fairies?"  was  his  cheerful  greeting,  as  he  stood  an 
instant  beside  his  chair  before  he  sat  down.  He 
was  a  tall,  distinguished-looking  man  with  a  pointed 
gray  beard,  which  seemed  always  to  have  been  of 

41 


Bonnie  May 

its  present  color,  rather  than  to  suggest  venerable- 
ness.  He  had  piercing  gray  eyes,  which  seemed 
formidable  under  their  definite  black  eyebrows. 
However,  his  eyes  readily  yielded  to  a  twinkle 
when  he  smiled.  He  stiU  adhered  rigidly  to  the  cus- 
tom of  dressing  formally  for  dinner,  and  he  enter- 
tained a  suspicion  that  Victor's  vocation,  which 
consisted  of  Hterary  work  of  some  indefinite  kind, 
was  making  him  sadly  Bohemian,  since  his  son  did 
not  perceive  the  need  of  being  so  punctihous.  "It's 
not  as  if  we  had  company  often,"  was  Victor's  de- 
fense, on  one  occasion,  of  the  course  he  had  adopted; 
but  his  father's  retort  had  been  that  "they  were 
still  in  the  habit  of  dining  with  one  another." 

"A  Httle  girl  we  are  sheltering  to-night,"  was 
Mrs.  Baron's  explanation  to  her  husband,  who  still 
regarded  the  child  at  the  opposite  end  of  the  table. 

"I  am  Bonnie  May,"  amended  the  child.  "I 
am  very  glad  to  meet  you,  I'm  sure."  She  smiled 
graciously  and  nodded  with  such  dignity  as  was 
compatible  with  a  rather  difficult  position.  She 
was  occupying  an  "adult"  chair,  and  httle  more 
than  her  head  and  shoulders  was  visible.  She  had 
briefly  yet  firmly  discouraged  the  suggestion  that 
she  sit  on  a  book. 

"A — ^protegee  of  Victor's,"  added  Mrs.  Baron, 
with  the  amiable  maUce  which  the  family  easily 
recognized. 

But  Flora  noted  the  word  "protegee"  and  smiled. 
To  her  mind  it  suggested  permanency. 

42 


A  Crisis 

"A  very  fine  little  girl,  I'm  sure,"  was  Mr.  Baron's 
comment.  He  was  critically  looking  at  the  fowl 
which  Mrs.  Shepard,  housekeeper  and  woman  of 
all  work,  had  placed  before  him.  His  entire  atten- 
tion was  immediately  monopolized  by  the  carving 
implements.  He  appeared  to  forget  the  child's 
presence. 

This  fact  is  set  down  as  a  significant  one,  because 
Flora  and  Baron,  Jr.,  were  both  keenly  and  frankly 
interested  in  his  impression.  If  he  didn't  mind 
having  her  about,  another  point  in  her  favor  would 
have  been  gained.  Mrs.  Baron,  too,  was  covertly 
interested  in  his  attitude.  She  was  not  quite  sure 
whether  she  wished  him  to  confirm  her  fears  or 
to  share  her  son's  and  daughter's  faith  in  the  un- 
expected guest. 

Thereafter  the  meal  progressed  somewhat  silently. 
Every  individual  in  the  group  was  alertly  awaiting 
developments. 

"Children  always  like  the  drumstick,"  declared 
Mr.  Baron  genially,  looking  at  Bonnie  May. 

"Yes,  I  beheve  so,"  admitted  the  guest  poHtely. 
She  added  casually:  "I  usually  prefer  the  wing." 

Mr.  Baron  rested  the  carving  knife  and  fork  on 
his  plate  and  scrutinized  the  speaker  sharply. 
The  child  was  opening  her  napkin  with  a  kind  of 
elegant  deliberation. 

Then  he  smiled.  "A  wing  it  shall  be,"  he  de- 
clared. 

Later  Mrs.  Baron  took  occasion  to  assert  her 

43 


Bonnie  May 

authority.  "Children  should  not  stare,"  she  de- 
clared, trying  to  assume  a  severe  contralto  tone, 
but  taking  care  to  smile,  so  that  her  rebuke  would 
seem  to  have  been  kindly  offered. 

Indeed,  Bonnie  May  was  paying  less  attention 
to  her  dinner  than  to  the  exquisite  napery,  the 
cut-glass  vase  in  which  some  of  Flora's  roses  had 
been  placed,  the  dinner-set  of  chaste  design,  and 
to  the  countenances  about  her. 

"Quite  true,"  she  admitted,  in  response  to  Mrs. 
Baron.  "But  you  know,  when  you  get  into  a  new 
company,  it's  quite  natural  to  size  everybody  up, 
so  you  can  make  up  your  mind  what  to  expect  of 
them." 

She  took  a  very  small  bite  from  a  young  green 
onion,  holding  her  Httle  finger  elegantly  apart. 
"How  prettily  the  white  blends  with  the  green," 
she  said  approvingly,  looking  critically  at  the 
onion. 

Mrs.  Baron  flushed.  "My  remark  was  that  chil- 
dren ought  not  to  stare,"  she  repeated  persistently 
and  less  gently. 

The  child's  serenity  failed  her.  "  I  don't,  usually," 
she  said  in  painful  embarrassment,  "and  I  don't 
beheve  I  criticise  people's  manners,  either,  unless 
it's  in  private." 

She  regained  her  self-control  immediately.  She 
replaced  the  onion  on  her  plate  and  lifted  her  nap- 
kin to  her  lips  with  exquisite  care. 

The  adult  persons  at  the  table  were  all  looking 

44 


A  Crisis 

from  one  to  another.  There  were  horizontal  lines 
in  every  forehead. 

"I  can't  remember  having  been  anywhere  where 
the  service  was  so  admirable,"  the  guest  added, 
directing  her  glance  toward  her  own  section  of 
the  board.  There  was  a  suggestion  of  gentle  ennui 
in  her  tone. 

Mrs.  Baron  was  glaring  at  her,  her  face  aflame 
with  mortification.  It  was  a  countenance  the  family 
was  famihar  with. 

"WeU,  what  have  you  been  doing  to-day,  Vic- 
tor?" inquired  Mr.  Baron  jocosely. 

It  was  the  tone — and  the  tactics — ^he  always 
adopted  when  he  wished  to  avoid  a  crisis. 

And  during  the  remainder  of  the  meal,  Bonnie 
May  was  an  extraordinarily  circumspect  and  silent 
little  giri. 


45 


CHAPTER  V 
BONNIE  MAY  OPENS  THE  DOOR 

There  was  a  polite,  somewhat  nervous  exchange 
of  remarks  at  the  table  during  the  remainder  of 
the  dinner-hour.  It  was  the  kind  of  conversation 
that  is  employed  sometimes  not  only  to  conceal 
thought,  but  to  divert  attention  from  the  fact  that 
there  is  anything  to  think  about. 

Nevertheless,  every  member  of  the  family  was 
thinking  hard — and  imcomfortably. 

Baron,  Sr.,  was  trying  patiently  to  determine 
what  subtle  thing  had  gone  wrong.  Mrs.  Baron, 
he  knew,  was  not  disagreeable  without  at  least 
an  imaginary  cause. 

Victor  and  Flora  were  thinking  along  somewhat 
similar  lines.  Why  had  their  mother  deliberately 
offended  an  inoff ending  guest?  They  knew  their 
guest  was  readily  to  be  classified  as  a  "precocious" 
child,  and  Mrs.  Baron  had  always  manifested  a 
strong  dislike — almost  a  dread — of  precocious  chil- 
dren, whose  remarks  are  sometimes  so  disconcert- 
ing to  those  who  are  not  very  liberal-minded. 

But  it  was  not  at  all  likely  that  Bonnie  May 
would  remain  a  member  of  the  household  longer 
than  a  day  or  so.     Indeed,  it  seemed  quite  prob- 

46 


Bonnie  May  Opens  the  Door 

able  that  she  would  be  called  for  at  any  moment. 
Such  a  child  would  not  be  permitted  by  relatives 
or  guardians  to  go  begging. 

Yet  Mrs.  Baron's  conduct  might  have  been  ac- 
cepted as  that  of  one  who  begins  the  tutelage  of  an 
adopted  daughter.  Had  their  mother  jumped  to 
the  conclusion  that  Bonnie  May  had  come  to  Hve 
with  them  permanently,  and  was  she  willing  to 
contemplate  such  an  arrangement? 

Beneath  their  small  talk,  therefore,  they  were 
indulging  in  decidedly  wild  hopes  and  fancies. 

When  the  family  were  about  to  leave  the  table, 
Mrs.  Baron  called  the  housekeeper.  The  others 
appeared  not  to  notice  particularly,  but  secretly 
they  were  all  attention. 

Said  Mrs.  Baron: 

"Mrs.  Shepard,  this  Httle  girl's  name  is  Bonnie 
May.  She  is  to  stay  with  us  this  evening.  Will 
you  see  that  the  spare  room  in  the  attic  is  made 
ready?  and  if  you  can  add  to  her  comfort  in  any 
way,  I'm  sure  you  will." 

"Yes,  ma'am,"  said  Mrs.  Shepard.  The  good, 
simple  creature  was  trying  to  hide  her  amazement. 
The  child  had  been  a  guest  at  the  table — and  she 
was  to  be  put  up  in  the  attic  to  sleep !  The  attic 
was  really  a  third  floor;  but  it  was  used  mainly 
for  storing  things,  and  for  the  houseman's  quarters. 
She  regarded  Bonnie  May  briefly — and  her  eyes 
twinkled !    The  child  was  smiling  at  her  amiably. 

"Mother!"  was  Flora's  hesitating  remonstrance, 

47 


Bonnie  May 

and  Victor  paid  such  studious  heed  to  the  folding 
of  his  napkin  that  it  was  evident  he  was  trying  to 
hide  his  discomfort.  In  a  moment  he  spoke — quite 
casually:  "I'm  afraid  it  will  be  lonesome  up  there 
for  her,  mother.  Suppose  you  let  her  have  my 
room  to-night.    I  won't  mind  giving  it  up." 

"Nonsense!  There's  no  need  of  your  being  dis- 
turbed." Mrs.  Baron's  forehead  was  still  creased 
by  menacing  horizontal  lines. 

The  guest  interposed.  The  family  was  rising, 
and  she  stood  with  her  back  to  the  table.  "If 
you  don't  mind,  Mrs.  Baron,"  she  said  evenly, 
"I'll  go  back  and  make  friends  with  Mrs.  Shepard. 
You  know  I  dearly  love  the  people  who  take  the — 
the  character  parts.  They're  usually  so  comfort- 
able!" 

"Well,  run  along."  She  tried  not  to  speak  im- 
patiently. She  felt  that  there  was  general  disap- 
proval of  her  mood. 

The  guest  went  into  the  kitchen.  At  the  door 
she  turned.  "It  was  a  lovely  dinner,"  she  said 
pohtely.    Then  she  disappeared. 

Silence  followed,  and  the  family  dispersed.  Mr. 
Baron  was  going  out  somewhere.  Victor  strolled 
musingly  up  into  the  library.  Flora  followed  her 
mother  up  into  the  sitting-room.  There  was  a 
good  deal  of  mental  tension,  considering  the  very 
slight  foundation  for  it. 

In  the  kitchen  Bonnie  May's  glad  bearing  van- 
ished.    She  became  strangely  pensive  for  a  little 

43 


Bonnie  May  Opens  the  Door 

girl.  Mrs.  Baron  did  not  like  her!  That  was  evi- 
dent. Yet  what  had  she  done,  save  to  take  her 
own  part,  as  she  had  always  had  to  do  ? 

Mrs.  Shepard  did  not  realize  that  the  child  was 
troubled.  When  children  were  troubled,  according 
to  Mrs. .  Shepard's  experience,  their  Hps  trembled 
or  their  eyes  filled  with  tears.  There  were  no  such 
signs  to  be  read  in  Bonnie  May's  face.  She  was 
standing  there  in  that  dazed  fashion  because  she 
was  in  a  strange  place,  of  course. 

"Wait  until  my  work's  done  and  I'll  bake  you  a 
little  cake!"  said  Mrs.  Shepard.  She  was  dehghted 
with  the  idea.  It  occurred  to  her  that  it  would  be 
a  great  pleasure  to  bake  a  little  cake  for  the  child. 

"A  httle  cake?"  responded  Bonnie  May  du- 
biously. "It's  kind  of  you,  you  know,  but  really 
I've  just  dined."  She  put  aU  troubled  thoughts 
away  from  her.  The  kitchen  was  really  a  wonderful 
place.  She  examined  various  utensils  with  in- 
terest. They  had  all  been  used.  She  had  seen 
many  of  these  things  before,  but  they  had  always 
been  shiny  and  new.  The  property-man  had  taken 
care  of  them. 

A  Httle  bell  above  Mrs.  Shepard's  head  tinkled 
energetically.  The  housekeeper  sighed  heavily  and 
began  wiping  her  hands  hastily. 

"What  is  it?"  inquired  Bonnie  May. 

"The  front-door  bell,"  was  the  answer. 

"Oh!  how  interesting.  Let  me  answer  it — 
do!" 

49 


Bonnie  May 

And  before  Mrs.  Shepard  could  carefully  consider 
the  matter,  she  gave  a  reluctant  consent.  She 
would  have  explained  what  one  should  do  under 
certain  contingencies,  but  there  hadn't  been  time. 
Bonnie  May  was  gone. 

As  the  child  passed  through  the  hall  she  heard 
the  family  moving  about  up-stairs.  Their  voices 
seemed  quite  remote;  they  were  almost  inaudible. 
Bonnie  May  thought  it  quite  probable  that  they 
had  not  heard  the  summons  at  the  door. 

She  felt  a  new  kind  of  elation  at  being  permitted 
to  officiate  in  even  a  very  small  domestic  function. 
She  was  going  to  admit  some  one  who  really  came 
from  out  of  the  unknown — ^whose  every  word 
and  movement  would ,  not  be  .  known  to  her  be- 
forehand. 

Then  the  mansion 'seemed  to  become  strangely 
silent,  as  if  it  were  listening  imeasily  to  learn  who 
it  was  that  had  come  out  of  the  darkness  and 
sounded  a  summons  to  those  within. 

Bonnie  May  caught  her  breath.  Her  face  was 
fairly  glowing  when  she  opened  the  door. 

A  gentleman  stood  there;  a  man  who  was  very 
substantial-looking  and  by  no  means  formidable 
in  appearance.  The  hall-light  fell  on  him.  It 
seemed  to  Bonnie  May  that  he  was  quite  middle- 
aged.  He  was  well-dressed  in  a  rather  informal 
way.  A  short-cropped  black  mustache  had  the 
eflfect  of  retreating  slightly  between  two  ruddy 
cheeks.    His  eyes  expressed  some  degree  of  merri- 

50 


Bonnie  May  Opens  the  Door 

ment — of  mischief,  and  this  fact  gave  him  standing 
with  Bonnie  May  immediately. 

"Good  evening,"  said  Bonnie  May  in  her  most 
friendly  manner.  She  waited,  looking  inquiringly 
up  into  the  twinkling  eyes. 

"I  came  to  see  Miss  Baron.    Is  she  at  home?" 

"Will  you  come  in?    I'll  see." 

She  led  the  way  into  the  big  drawing-room, 
which  was  in  complete  darkness,  save  for  such 
rays  of  Hght  as  penetrated  from  the  hall.  "I'm 
afraid  I'll  have  to  ask  you  to  light  the  gas,"  she 
added.    "It's  too  high  for  me  to  reach." 

"Maybe  I'd  better  wait  in  the  hall  until  you  go 
and  tell  Miss  Flora." 

"Certainly  not.    Light  the  gas,  please." 

He  obeyed,  and  as  the  light  fell  suddenly  upon 
his  face  she  saw  that  there  was  a  mischievously  med- 
itative gleam  in  his  eyes. 

Still  holding  the  burnt  match  in  his  fingers,  he 
turned  to  her.  "I  don't  believe  I've  met  you  be- 
fore?" he  said. 

"I  only  came  to-day.    Will  you  sit  down?" 

"You — ^Uving  here?"  The  caller  appeared  to  be 
in  no  hurry  to  have  his  arrival  announced.  He 
Hstened  a  moment  to  the  faint  voices  above,  and 
seemed  reassured. 

"Why,  yes — ^I  think  so.  You  see,  I  always  live 
wherever  I  happen  to  be."  She  smiled  brightly, 
to  rob  her  words  of  any  seeming  unfriendliness. 
She  regarded  him  more  in  detail.  He  was  a  big- 
Si 


Bonnie  May 

bodied  man,  with  a  proper  tendency  to  dwindle 
away  neatly  from  the  shoulders  down.  His  hair 
was  of  the  sort  that  refuses  to  be  quite  nice.  It 
was  astonishingly  thick  and  dark,  with  an  occa- 
sional glint  of  silver  in  it,  and  it  was  close-cropped. 
She  liked  the  way  he  stood,  too;  his  chest  well  out, 
his  head  back,  and  as  if  nothing  could  disturb  his 
balance.  Bonnie  May  had  seen  so  many  men  who 
stood  as  if  they  needed  propping  up,  or  as  if  they 
would  be  more  secure  if  they  had  four  legs  to  stand 
on. 

He  returned  her  careful  scrutiny,  and  the  look 
of  approval  in  her  eyes  brought  a  ruddier  glow  to 
his  cheeks  and  a  merrier  look  to  his  eyes. 

He  sat  down  and  held  out  both  his  hands,  smil- 
ing so  broadly  that  she  could  see  many  white, 
lustrous  teeth. 

She  put  her  hands  into  his  without  hesitation. 
She  felt  extraordinarily  happy. 

"Tell  me,"  she  whispered,  "are  you  the — the 
Romeo  in  the  cast?" 

He  released  her  hands  and  brought  his  own  down 
upon  his  knees  with  vehemence.  His  eyes  were 
almost  shouting  with  merriment  now. 

"Wasn't  Romeo  in  kind  of  bad  standing  with 
his  prospective  parents-in-law?" 

"Something  like  that.  He  couldn't  see  Her,  ex- 
cept up  in  a  balcony." 

He  nodded  his  head.  "Well,  then,  I'm  the 
Romeo!" 


Bonnie  May  Opens  the  Door 

Again  she  regarded  him  critically.  "You  seem 
a  little  old  for  the  part,"  she  suggested. 

"Do  you  think  so?"  He  was  thoughtful  for  a 
moment.  "Maybe  that's  what  Mrs.  Baron  thinks. 
She  won't  even  let  me  stand  under  a  balcony,  when 
she  can  help  it." 

"Isn't  she  quaint!'*  This  with  smiling  indul- 
gence. "But  of  course  you  don't  pay  any  atten- 
tion to  that?" 

"Oh,  yes  I  do;  we — ^we  have  to!'* 

Bonnie  May  looked  puzzled.  "I  can't  under- 
stand it,"  she  said.  "You  look  like  the  kind  that 
they  always  play  the  loud  music  for." 

"The — loud  music?"  he  echoed. 

"As  if  you  were  the  oldest  son,  come  back  in 
the  last  act  to  Uft  the  mortgage." 

They  smiled  into  each  other's  eyes,  and  then 
Bonnie  May  drew  close  to  him.  She  whispered: 
"I'll  see  if  I  can't  get  her  out  of  the  balcony."  She 
turned  toward  the  door.  "Shall  I  just  tell  her  that 
Romeo  is  here?" 

He  stared  after  her  in  delighted  amazement. 
"Lord  help  us,  no  1  Say  it's  Mr.  Addis."  His  face 
radiated  a  joyous  light  even  after  she  went  out  of 
the  room  and  softly  closed  the  door. 

She  went  up-stairs  softly  singing.  At  the  door  of 
the  sitting-room  she  paused.  Within,  Mrs.  Baron 
was  reading  one  of  those  irreproachable-looking 
books  which  are  always  about  something  very  re- 
mote. She  did  not  look  up  at  Bonnie  May's  approach. 

53 


Bonnie  May 

Miss  Baron  occupied  a  soft  seat  in  the  bay  win- 
dow, and  it  was  clear  that  she  was  troubled  a  little. 

The  child  beckoned,  and  Flora's  face  instantly 
brightened. 

Mrs.  Baron  was  fully  aware  of  all  that  trans- 
pired. She  believed  the  guest  was  afraid  of  her. 
She  felt  a  mild  gratification. 

When  Flora  came  out  into  the  hall  Bonnie  May 
whispered:  "I  want  you  to  come  down-stairs  with 
me."  She  took  Flora's  hand  and  patted  it  quite 
bHssfully. 

They  got  to  the  foot  of  the  stairs  just  in  time  to 
see  the  outlines  of  a  masculine  form  mounting  the 
front  steps.  The  frosted  glass  in  the  door  per- 
mitted this  much  to  be  seen. 

"Some  one  else!"  commented  Bonnie  May,  and 
she  turned  to  Flora.  "Do  you  have  so  much  com- 
pany every  evening?"  she  asked. 

"So  much  company!"  echoed  Flora;  she  looked 
puzzled. 

"Well,  never  mind,"  Bonnie  May  hastened  to 
add.  "Some  one  is  expecting  you  in  the  drawing- 
room.    And  please  let  me  receive  the  new  visitor!" 

She  opened  the  drawing-room  door,  and  watched 
while  Flora  wonderingly  entered.  Then  she  pulled 
the  door  to  cautiously.  She  had  heard  a  low,  for- 
lorn note  of  surprise  in  Flora's  voice,  and  Mr. 
Addis's  eager,  whispered  greeting. 

Then  she  opened  the  front  door  in  time  to  pre- 
vent the  newcomer  from  ringing. 

54 


"You  seem  a  little  old  for  the  part,"  she  suggested. 


Bonnie  May  Opens  the  Door 

A  young  man  of  a  rather  assertive  Bohemian 
appearance  stood  before  her. 

"Hello!"  was  his  greeting.  The  tone  denoted 
surprise,  rather  than  familiarity  He  hastily  added: 
"Excuse  me — is  Victor — Mr.  Baron — in?" 

Bonnie  May  perceived  that  he  was  not  quite 
comfortable,  not  at  all  self-possessed.  He  seemed 
to  her  a  strange  person  to  be  caUing  on  any  of  the 
Barons.    Still,  he  seemed  rather  human. 

"I'll  see,"  she  said.  "Please  step  inside."  She 
would  make  him  wait  in  the  hall,  she  decided. 

"Tell  him,  please,  that  Baggot  has  called — that 
I've  brought  the  first  act  of  my  play." 

"A  play!    Oh!" 

Again  she  hurried  up  the  stairs;  this  time  with 
unconcealed  eagerness.  When  she  entered  Mrs. 
Baron's  room  she  hesitated.  "If  you'll  excuse 
me — "  she  faltered.  "I'm  looking  for  Mr.  Vic- 
tor." 

Mrs.  Baron  sat  more  erect,  the  open  volume  in 
her  lap.  "Forming  a  little  organization  down- 
stairs?" she  asked. 

"Some  one's  called  for  Mr.  Victor.  I  wanted  to 
teU  him." 

"Very  well.  He's  in  the  library."  She  nodded 
toward  the  adjoining  room. 

Victor  was  alone  in  the  hbrary.  He  was  in  the 
attitude  of  one  who  is  about  to  write,  but  he  was 
not  writing.  He  was  glowering  at  the  paper  before 
him. 

55 


Bonnie  May 

He  sprang  to  his  feet  eagerly  when  Bonnie  May 
appeared. 

"I've  been  thinking  about  you,"  he  said.  "Flora 
has,  too.  We  meant  to  come  and  find  you  before 
long  and  get  you  away  from  Mrs.  Shepard.  We 
didn't  want  to  seem  too  eager,  you  know.  We 
wanted  to  wait  until  the  governess " 

Bonnie  May  did  not  wait  for  him  to  finish;  in- 
deed, he  seemed  to  have  difficulty  about  finishing. 
"Mr.  Baggot  has  called,"  she  said.  "It's  about  a 
play."  She  was  breathing  uneasily.  "And  couldn't 
I  sit  with  you  and  Hsten,  please?"  she  added. 

"Oh!  Baggot!  Baggot  is  one  of  my  crosses, 
Bonnie  May.  Couldn't  you  shut  the  door  in  his 
face  ?  It  would  be  quite  proper.  He  is  one  of  those 
silly  feUows  who  think  they  are  destined  to  write 
great  plays.  Couldn't  you  go  down  and  put  him 
out?" 

She  looked  at  him  steadily  without  a  word.  She 
was  smiling  a  little  scornfully. 

"Very  well.  Suppose  you  go  and  ask  him  to 
come  up — this  time." 

"And — do  let  me  come  too!  They've  often  let 
me  listen  when  new  plays  were  being  read." 

"Such  wanton   cruelty!"     He   shook   his   head 
slowly,  as  if  it  were  quite  incredible.     "Oh,  well 
you  may  come,  too,"  he  added. 

Mrs.  Baron  glanced  up  from  her  book  again  when 
Bonnie  May  and  Baggot  passed  through  the  room. 
She  spoke  to  Baggot  in  the  most  casual  manner. 

56 


Bonnie  May  Opens  the  Door 

Bonnie  May  concluded  that  he  must  be  a  somewhat 
frequent  visitor.  Mrs.  Baron  was  quite  frank  in 
her  indifference  to  him.  ''I  think  you'll  find  Victor 
in  the  library,"  she  said.  She  glanced  pointedly  at 
the  manuscript  in  his  hand  and  frowned.  "And 
would  you  mind  closing  the  door  when  you  go  in?" 

Mrs.  Baron  achieved  her  cruelties  sometimes  with 
such  a  naive  directness  that  they  seemed  to  many 
people  like  a  kind  of  high  breeding. 

Baggot  stepped  gingerly  into  the  next  room,  fol- 
lowed eagerly  by  Bonnie  May.  He  was  closing  the 
door  softly  when  Baron  greeted  him. 

"Hello,  Baggot.  Done  something  great  again, 
of  course?" 

"Yes,  I  have!"  retorted  Baggot  angrily.  He 
wouldn't  endure  Baron's  bad  manners,  no  matter 
how  he  might  receive  the  bad  manners  of  Baron's 
mother.  "You're  going  to  say  so,  too.  I've  got 
the  first  act  finished.  I've  only  got  to  fill  in  the 
scenario  of  the  other  acts,  and  I've  got  the  greatest 
play  that  ever  came  out  of  America." 

Baron  smiled  wearily.  "And  I'm  to  listen  while 
you  read  the  first  act  of  the  greatest  play,  etc.?" 

"Yes — and  you're  to  agree  with  me,  too.  I 
don't  see  anything  great  in  your  sneering  at  me  aU 
the  time !"  He  pulled  up  a  chair  and  sat  down  so 
that  his  knees  almost  touched  Baron's. 

Obviously,  they  were  a  pair  of  young  men  ou 
very  intimate  terms. 

Bonnie  May  slipped  into  a  remote  comer  of  the 

57 


Bonnie  May 

room  and  climbed  into  a  big  chair.  Her  hand  sup- 
ported her  chin;  her  eyes  were  luminous.  She  did 
not  mean  to  miss  a  word. 

And  Baggot  began  to  read.  His  face  was  al- 
most tortured  with  nervous  energy.  He  handled 
the  pages  as  if  they  were  in  hopeless  confusion, 
yet  he  brought  order  out  of  them  swiftly. 

The  reading  proceeded  ten  minutes,  twenty 
minutes,  half  an  hour.  Baggot  read  with  pro- 
found confidence  and  behef.  His  staccato  tones 
fairly  hurled  the  words  of  the  play  at  his  auditors. 
Baron  had  put  away  his  cynic  attitude.  He  had 
become  deeply  impressed.  He  had  even  forgotten 
that  it  was  his  favorite  pose  not  to  seem  deeply 
impressed  by  anything. 

Bonnie  May  was  like  one  in  a  beautiful  dream. 
She  was  not  only  listening  to  the  play;  she  was 
living  it. 

And  then  her  dream  was  broken  in  a  manner 
which  filled  her  mind  with  almost  blank  astonish- 
ment. 

Mrs.  Baron  appeared  in  the  doorway. 

"Bonnie  May,"  she  announced,  "I  think  it's 
high  time  for  a  little  girl  to  be  in  bed." 


58 


CHAPTER  VI 

CONCERNING  A  FROCK 

It  might  have  been,  and  should  have  been, 
apparent  to  the  several  members  of  the  Baron 
household  that  Bonnie  May  had  been  giving  an 
admirable  exhibition  of  seK-repression  from  the 
moment  she  had  entered  the  house. 

A  change  came  at  last — ^when  Mrs.  Baron  dis- 
turbed the  reading  of  the  play  and  announced,  at 
nine  o'clock,  that  it  was  "high  time  for  a  little 
girl  to  be  in  bed." 

Mrs.  Baron  couldn't  possibly  have  realized  how 
Boimie  May  had  been  accustomed  to  divide  her 
hours  between  sleeping  and  waking.  The  guest 
had  spent  her  life  among  player  people,  whose  ac- 
tive hours  begin  at  noon  or  later,  and  who  do  not 
deem  the  day  ended  until  after  midnight — some- 
times far  later  than  midnight.  Nor  had  it  been 
found  convenient — or  needful — ^by  Bonnie  May's 
fellow  workers  to  make  any  exception  to  the  rule 
on  her  behalf.  She  had  been  one  of  them,  and  she 
had  fared  well  and  pleasantly. 

Thus  it  was  that  when  Mrs.  Baron  appeared, 
somewhat  like  a  bolt  out  of  a  clear  sky,  the  child 
gave  way  to  overwhelming  rebeUion. 

59 


Bonnie  May 

"I'm  not  used  to  going  to  bed  at  this  hour,"  she 
declared  bluntly.  She  arose  and  stood  by  her 
chair,  like  a  soldier  by  his  guns,  as  the  saying  is. 
And  taking  in  the  inexorable  expression  in  Mrs. 
Baron's  eyes,  she  turned  appealingly  to  Baron. 
She  was  relying  upon  him  to  help  her. 

"Couldn't  she — "  began  Baron  weakly,  and 
added,  quite  without  conviction:  "You  know  it's 
Saturday  night,  mother!"  He  was  glad  he  had 
thought  of  its  being  Saturday,  though  he  couldn't 
see  why  that  should  make  very  much  difference. 
He  reaUy  believed  his  mother's  position  was  strong 
enough,  if  she  had  only  gone  about  the  matter 
more  tactfully. 

"Saturday  night  doesn't  make  any  difference," 
declared  Bonnie  May,  her  rebellion  now  including 
Baron  in  its  scope.  "It  just  isn't  a  reasonable 
bedtime." 

Baron  felt  ready  to  surrender.  "Anyway,  it 
won't  be  so  bad  just  for  one  night,"  he  ventured. 

"Never  mind,  Victor,"  said  Mrs.  Baron  point- 
edly. She  addressed  herself  to  Bonnie  May. 
"What  you've  been  accustomed  to  may  not  be 
quite  so  important  as  what  you  ought  to  become 
accustomed  to,"  she  said.    "Come!" 

The  child  sauntered  thoughtfully  from  the  room. 
She  had  been  impressed  by  the  fact  that  even  Baron 
had  not  seemed  surprised  by  the  suggestion  that 
she  ought  to  go  to  bed.  She  was  trying  to  com- 
prehend the  situation.    After  all,  people  who  were 

60 


Concerning  a  Frock 

not  of  the  profession  had  ways  of  their  own,  she 
realized.  If  they  had  all  decided  to  go  to  bed,  she 
wouldn't  have  minded  so  much.  But  they  were 
laying  down  a  special  law  for  her. 

RebeUion  triumphed  again.  In  Mrs.  Baron's 
room  she  halted.  "Where  am  I  to  sleep?"  she  in- 
quired. 

"I  think  you  heard  me  tell  Mrs.  Shepard  to  pre- 
pare a  room." 

"In  the  attic?  Yes.  But  I'm  not  going  to  sleep 
there." 

"Indeed,  you  are." 

"I  beg  your  pardon!  Not  under  any  circum- 
stances!" 

Mrs.  Baron  lifted  her  fingers  to  her  lips  and 
coughed — a  very  inexpert  cough.  "You'll  have  to 
do  as  I  tell  you,  you  know."  She  resumed  a  res- 
olute march  toward  the  hall,  her  hand  pressed 
firmly  against  Bonnie  May's  back. 

The  child  jerked  away  with  a  sense  of  outrage. 
She  had  never  been  treated  so  before. 

"Truly,  you'll  have  to  obey  me,"  repeated  Mrs. 
Baron. 

Bonnie  May  was  alarmed;  she  quite  lost  control 
of  herself.  "Stop  your  kiddin'!"  she  said  with  a 
catch  in  her  voice.  She  tried  to  say  it  playfully, 
but  her  self-possession  was  gone.  Her  remark 
had  sounded  simply  offensive,  indehcate. 

"And  I  can't  permit  you  to  use  such  language, 
either!"  declared  Mrs.  Baron. 

6i 


Bonnie  May 

The  dismayed  guest  pressed  her  hands  to  her 
eyes  as  if  she  were  trying  to  think  clearly. 

Then  she  made  a  rush  for  the  stairway ! 

Mrs.  Baron  put  dignity  aside  long  enough  to 
pursue  her,  to  seize  her  by  the  arm.  She  was  be- 
coming outraged,  greatly  indignant.  "What  do 
you  mean  to  do?"  she  demanded,  her  voice  trem- 
bhng  slightly. 

"I'm  quitting." 

"You're " 

"I  won't  stay  here!" 

The  distressed  old  gentlewoman  tried  to  calm  her- 
self.    "Where  do  you  think  of  going?"  she  asked. 

"Anywhere — to  the  theatres.  Any  company  in 
town  will  be  glad  to  have  me.  They  will  know  who 
I  am.  They — they  are  the  kind  of  people  who  will 
appreciate  me !"  The  words  were  spoken  in  a  tone 
of  heart-break,  of  despair. 

Mrs.  Baron  afterward  confessed  to  members  of 
her  family  that  for  the  first  time  in  her  life  she  felt 
completely  helpless.  She  was,  in  truth,  a  somewhat 
childish  person  in  many  ways,  and  she  was  not  ac- 
customed to  any  impleasantnesses  save  those  which 
she  created  for  others. 

At  any  rate,  she  swallowed  with  difficulty — and 
surrendered.  "It's  a  very  small  point,  after  all," 
she  said  imgraciously.  "Go  into  my  room.  Flora 
will  look  after  you."  She  spoke  coldly,  all  her 
interest  seemingly  withdrawn. 

And  just  as  the  guest  disappeared  into  Mrs. 

62 


Concerning  a  Frock 

Baron's  sitting-room,  Flora  came  almost  stealthily 
up  the  stairs, 

"I  wish  you'd  put  that  little  limb  of  Satan  to 
bed,"  she  said.  Flora  saw  that  her  mother's  hand, 
on  the  balustrade,  trembled. 

"Where  shall  I  put  her?"  she  inquired. 

"Anywhere!  just  so  you  get  her  covered  up  for 
the  night." 

Flora  paused,  her  eyes  uneasily  seeking  her 
mother's. 

"I'm  afraid  you're  angry  with  me,  mother," 
she  said  humbly. 

"With  you?     Certainly  not." 

Flora  was  puzzled.  Her  mother  had  long  ago 
declared  that  Mr.  Addis  must  not  be  accepted  as 
a  visitor.  Did  she  know  that  he  had  just  gone? 
She  was  about  to  enter  her  mother's  sitting-room 
when  something  prompted  her  to  turn. 

"You  knew  Mr.  Addis  called,  didn't  you?"  she 
asked. 

Mrs.  Baron's  face  jflamed  again.  "Knew  it? 
Certainly,  I  didn't  know  it !  I've  told  Mrs.  Shep- 
ard — I  don't  intend  that  he  shall  annoy  you !" 

"Oh,  mother!  He  doesn't!  And  I  think  Mrs. 
Shepard  didn't  know,  this  time.  Bonnie  May 
went  to  the  door  and  let  him  in.  She  called  me 
down-stairs  without  telling  me  who  it  was."  Flora 
surveyed  her  mother  yearningly,  yet  with  a  kind 
of  gentle  courage.  "I  don't  beheve  in  hiding  things 
from  you,  mother.    But  I  was  glad  to  see  him." 

63 


Bonnie  May- 
Mrs.  Baron  looked  grimly  toward  her  own  door. 

''She  let  him  in !    Very  well.    Put  her  to  bed  !" 
She    descended    the    stairs    with    dignity.      She 

must  have  been  thinking  of  future  victories  rather 

than  of  past  defeats. 

When  Flora  entered  the  sitting-room  she  found 
Bonnie  May  standing  in  uneasy  contemplation. 

"Mother  says  I'm  to  put  you  to  bed,"  said  Miss 
Baron. 

"Why  didn't  she  go  ahead  and  put  me  to  bed 
herseh?" 

Flora  perceived  that  the  question  was  not  want- 
ing in  sincerity.  She  decided  to  answer  quite  hon- 
estly. 

"I  think,"  she  ventured  gently,  "you  must  have 
said  something  to  vex  her." 

"Not  at  all.  She  tried  to  vex  me.  I  behaved 
very  properly." 

Flora  sighed  and  shook  her  head  slowly;  but 
she  was  smiling,  too.  She  was  wondering  what  it 
really  was  that  had  gone  wrong.  "Possibly  you 
didn't  want  to  obey  her?"  she  ventured. 

The  child's  brow  puckered.  "But  why  should 
I  want  to  obey  her?" 

"Why — ^because  she's  going  to  be  good  to  you, 
Vm.  sure." 

"Well,  I  mean  to  be  good  to  her,  too — ^if  she'll 
let  me.    And  I  don't  ask  her  to  obey  me." 

"But  it's  different.    She's  an  old  lady." 

64 


Concerning  a  Frock 

"Well,  I've  got  no  patience  with  old  people. 
It's  all  right,  just  as  a  part,  but  there's  no  use  put- 
ting it  on  all  the  time." 

"But,  dear,"  implored  Flora,  drawing  the  child 
within  the  curve  of  her  arm,  "don't  say  that!  I 
know  you  mean  to  be  nice  and  kind,  but  truly  you 
don't  understand.  We  must  all  grow  old  some 
time — even  you  will  get  to  be  old." 

The  guest  gave  deUberate  thought  to  this;  then 
her  expression  became  resolute.  "Well,  if  they 
ever  hang  any  gray  hairs  on  me  they'll  have  to 
catch  me  when  I'm  asleep — I'll  tell  you  that  right 
now." 

Miss  Baron  was  not  encouraged  to  argue  the 
point  any  further.  She  resumed  the  subject  of 
going  to  bed. 

"You  know  I'm  to  have  his  room — ^your 
brother's?"  the  guest  insisted. 

"Mother  said  you  might  sleep  where  you  liked." 

"Did  she  say  that?" 

"Almost  exactly." 

"Well,  where  is  that  attic  room?'* 

"It's  up  one  more  flight  of  stairs — ^under  the  roof." 

The  child  looked  quite  wistful  and  earnest,  and 
then  her  words  came  with  conviction.  "I  just 
couldn't  sleep  up  there.  Attics  are  where  misers 
sleep,  and  poor  children.  It's  where  people  die  of 
hunger  and  cold.  It's  never  the  right  kind  of  peo- 
ple.    Come,  let's  go  to  his  room." 

And  so  they  did. 

65 


Bonnie  May 

"You  won't  mind  my  helping  you?"  pleaded 
Flora. 

"Helping  me?" 

"To  imdress,  you  know — and  to  be  tucked  in!" 

The  guest  looked  at  her  unresponsively.  "But 
I've  been  used  to  doing  that  for  myself,"  she  said. 

Flora  quickly  stooped  and  took  her  into  her 
arms  impulsively.  "Dear  child,"  she  cried,  her 
voice  tremulous,  "let  me  do  it  to-night!  I  think 
you'll  love  it — and  I'll  love  it,  too."  She  drew  the 
perplexed  face  almost  roughly  against  her  own. 

She  did  not  wait  to  be  refused.  She  hurried 
into  the  bathroom  and  busied  herseK;  she  was 
singing  a  Httle  crooning  song.  There  was  also  the 
noise  of  water  splashing  into  the  tub. 

She  reappeared  presently.  "The  water  is  ready — 
for  your  bath,  you  know,  and  I've  left  one  of  my 
nighties  there  for  you."  She  smiled  happily.  "Of 
course  it  will  be  too  big.  I'll  make  you  some  little 
ones  soon." 

The  seeming  perversion  of  the  child  asserted  it- 
self again.  "I  usually  take  my  bath  in  the  morn- 
ing," she  said  a  Httle  stiffly;  but  she  saw  how  the 
glad  light  in  Miss  Baron's  eyes  wavered,  and  she 
added  quickly,  "but  it  will  be  all  right."  And 
she  went  out  into  the  bathroom. 

When  she  reappeared  after  a  rather  long  time 
she  was  smiling  radiantly.  She  had  on  Flora's 
nightgown,  soft  and  white,  with  pink  ribbons.  She 
held  it  daintily  up  before  her  feet,  and  glanced 

66 


'Concerning  a  Frock 

back  at  the  train  that  dragged  behind.  "Isn't  it 
lovely!"  she  said. 

"It  is,  dear,"  said  Flora. 

She  had  turned  the  white  coverlet  and  the  sheet 
down.  Now  she  watched  the  child  scramble  up  into 
the  bed.     She  wanted  to  help,  but  she  refrained. 

"Would  you  like  me  to  tell  you  a  story?"  asked 
Flora. 

Bonnie  May  looked  at  her  swiftly,  incredulously. 
"No ! "  she  said.  She  burst  out  into  riotous  laughter. 
"I'm  not  an  infant,"  she  explained. 

Flora  flushed.  "Very  weU,"  she  said  gently. 
Yet  she  lingered  in  the  room  a  little  while.  She 
put  some  of  Victor's  masculine  decorations  out  of 
sight.  She  adjusted  the  blind.  She  was  about  to 
extinguish  the  light  when  she  looked  again  at  the 
strange  guest. 

The  child's  eyes  were  fixed  upon  her  widely, 
wonderingly. 

"You  lovely  thing!"  said  Bonnie  May. 

"Good  night,  dear!"  said  Flora.  And  then  she 
knew  that  the  child  wished  to  speak  to  her,  and 
she  went  over  and  bent  above  the  bed.  "What 
is  it,  Bonnie  May?"  she  asked. 

The  child  stared  before  her  in  silence  for  a  mo- 
ment and  then  the  words  came.  "I  wished  so 
much  that  she  would  love  me!"  she  said.  "I  tried 
so  hard.  .  .  ." 

Flora  slipped  her  hand  under  the  guest's  head. 
"I'll  teU  you  a  secret,"  she  whispered.     "If  she 

67 


Bonnie  May 

hadn't  cared  for  you,  she  would  have  been  quite 
poHte;  she  would  have  been  wonderfully  gracious. 
She  was  ungracious  and  unkind  because — ^because 
she  loved  you,  dear.  It  seems  absurd,  doesn't  it? 
But  I  know." 

It  was  an  absurd  theory,  perhaps;  yet  there  was 
certainly  needed  some  explanation  of  Mrs.  Baron's 
course  later  in  the  evening. 

The  house  became  quiet  after  a  time.  The  rumb- 
ling voices  in  the  library  ceased  and  Baggot,  with 
meticulous  circumspection,  wended  his  way  down 
the  stairs  and  was  gone.  Later,  Victor  emerged 
from  the  Hbrary  and  disappeared  for  the  night. 
Baron,  Sr.,  came  in  and  sat  and  smoked  awhile — 
and  retired.  Flora  sat  in  the  sitting-room  linger- 
ingly,  gazing  pensively  at  a  book  without  turning 
its  pages,  and  at  length  she  arose  and  kissed  her 
mother's  cheek  and  said  good  night. 

And  then  Mrs.  Baron  tiptoed  into  another  room 
and  nunmaged  in  a  bureau  drawer  and  found  a  gay 
piece  of  gingham  which  had  been  waiting  its  time  to 
be  useful.  With  this  in  her  hands  she  returned  to 
her  sitting-room,  and  spread  work  materials  upon 
her  table.  And  with  patience  and  fortitude  and  a 
kind  of  rapt  self-absorption  she  worked  far  into  the 
night. 

The  usual  Simday  morning  quietude  of  the  man- 
sion  was   disturbed    somewhat   when    the    family 

68 


Concerning  a  Frock 

again  assembled.  An  extraordinary  event  had  oc- 
curred. 

Mrs.  Baron  had  sat  up  late  the  night  before  and 
had  made  a  Dress. 

In  announcing  the  fact  she  had  pronounced  the 
word  in  such  a  manner  that  the  use  of  the  capital 
letter  is  fully  justified.  She  displayed  the  Dress 
for  the  admiration  of  her  son  and  her  daughter, 
and  her  husband.  And  finally  she  generously  re- 
linquished it  to  Flora.  "You  may  give  it  to  her,'* 
she  said  rather  loftily. 

Bonnie  May  had  not  yet  appeared. 

Flora,  knocked  softly  on  the  guest's  door  and 
without  waiting  went  into  the  room,  displaying  the 
new  garment  rather  conspicuously. 

"What's  that?"  inquired  Bonnie  May  dubiously. 

"It's  a  new  dress  for  you." 

"It  was  never  made  for  me,"  affirmed  the  child 
with  conviction. 

"Indeed,  it  was.  Mother  sat  up  ever  so  late 
last  night  and  made  it  for  you." 

"Well,  that,  of  course,  was  a  matter  I  should 
have  been  consulted  about." 

Bonnie  May  was  now  sitting  on  the  edge  of  the 
bed,  trying  to  make  the  toes  of  one  foot  come  in 
contact  with  the  floor.  Miss  Baron  sat  on  a  low 
chair  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  the  new  dress 
spread  across  her  knees. 

"But  you're  glad,  aren't  you?"  she  asked. 

"I'm  glad  in  a  way.  I'm  glad  that  anybody  so 
69 


Bonnie  May 

disagreeable  could  really  try  to  do  you  a  good 
turn."  Clearly,  each  day  was  a  new  day,  with 
Bonnie  May. 

"But,  dear  child,  mother  won't  seem  disagree- 
able to  you  when  you  come  to  know  her.  It  hurts 
me  to  have  you  speak  so  of  her — truly  it  does. 
And  I  think  she  must  have  worked  until  she  was 
very  weary,  making  the  dress  for  you." 

"I  appreciate  all  that,"  the  guest  hastened  to 
explain,  genuine  compunction  in  her  voice.  "But 
you  see,  the  dress  isn't  at  all  suitable." 

"I'm  sure  you'U  like  it  much  better  when  you 
try  it  on." 

"Take  my  word  for  it — ^it  won't  do." 

Miss  Baron  felt  for  the  moment  as  if  she  could 
have  pounced  upon  the  child  and  spanked  her. 
But  she  noticed  how  one  curl  fell  outside  her  ear, 
and  how  the  eyes  and  voice  were  profoundly  earnest, 
and  how  the  attitude  was  eloquent  of  a  kind  of  re- 
pentance before  the  fact. 

And  so  she  said:  "Won't  you  do  something  for 
me  that  will  please  me  better  than  anything  else 
I  can  think  of — something  that  wiU  take  only  a 
minute?" 

Bonnie  May  looked  at  her  meditatively — and 
then  began  to  laugh  quite  riotously!  "You  don't 
look  the  part ! "  she  gurgled  in  justification. 

"What  part,  please?"  The  question  was  put 
somewhat  blankly. 

"You're  talking  like  a — oh,  a  Lady  Clare,  and 
you  haven't  even  got  your  shoes  buttoned  up !" 

70 


Concerning  a  Frock 

Miss  Baron  slowly  regarded  her  shoes;  then  her 
glance  travelled  calmly  to  Bonnie  May;  then  she 
rather  dully  inspected  the  dress  that  lay  across 
her  knees.  Her  countenance  had  become  inscru- 
table. She  turned  away  from  the  guest's  scrutiny, 
and  after  a  moment  she  arose  slowly  and  left  the 
room,  carrying  the  dress  with  her. 

She  did  not  stop  to  define  her  feelings.  She  was 
wounded,  but  she  felt  sharp  resentment,  and  she 
was  thinking  rebeUiously  that  she  was  in  no  degree 
responsible  for  Bonnie  May.  Still  ..  .  her  sense 
of  justice  stayed  her.  She  had  the  conviction  that 
the  child's  remark,  if  inexcusably  frank,  was  a  fair 
one.    And  it  had  been  made  so  joyously ! 

However,  she  meant  to  go  to  her  mother  with  a 
request  to  be  excused  from  any  further  humiliation 
as  Bonnie  May's  handmaiden.  But  before  she  had 
proceeded  half  a  dozen  steps  she  began  to  fear 
even  greater  disaster,  if  Mrs.  Baron  should  under- 
take to  be  the  bearer  of  the  rejected  dress. 

It  would  be  a  victory  worth  working  for,  if  she 
could  overcome  the  fastidious  guest's  prejudice. 

She  went  to  her  room  and  carefully  buttoned  her 
shoes  and  made  other  improvements  in  her  toilet. 
Then  she  went  back  into  Bonnie  May's  presence. 

"I  was  untidy,"  she  confessed.  "I  hope  you'll 
excuse  me."  She  was  smoothing  out  the  new  dress. 
"You  see,  I  only  meant  to  wear  my  every-day  shoes 
imtil  after  breakfast,  and  then  put  on  my  good 
shoes,  for  Sunday-school  and  church.  And  I've 
been  very  busy." 

71 


Bonnie  May 

Bonnie  May  pondered  this  judicially.  "It's 
lovely  of  you  to  be  so  nice  about  it,"  she  finally 
admitted,  "but  I'm  afraid  I  don't  get  your 
idea.  ..."  She  frowned.  "'Every-day  shoes'  and 
*  Sunday  shoes,'"  she  repeated  vaguely. 

"Well?"  said  Flora  persuasively. 

"Don't  you  like  to  be  as  good  on  Saturday  as 
on  Sunday?" 

"Why,  yes — ^just  as  good,  certainly."  Flora  was 
looking  bewildered. 

"And  on  Friday,  and  on  other  days?" 

"Yes,  I  think  so." 

"Well,  why  shouldn't  you  wear  your  'good'  shoes 
aU  the  week,  then?" 

"But  people  must  look  nicer  on  Simdays  than 
on  other  days." 

"I  don't  see  why.  If  you  only  look  nice,  I 
don't  ace  what's  the  good.  And  if  you  really  are 
nice,  I  fhm]c  the  nice  shoes  might  help  all  the 
time." 

"What  I  mean  is,"  persisted  Flora  patiently, 
"I  don't  like  to  work  in  my  nice  shoes."  She  brought 
this  out  somewhat  triumphantly. 

"That's  funny.  That's  the  very  time  I  like  to 
look  my  best.  Nothing  is  as  important  as  your 
work,  is  it?" 

Flora  was  almost  in  despair.  "I  doubt  if  I  ever 
thought  of  it  in  just  that  light,"  she  admitted. 
"I'll  think  it  over,  if  you'll  try  the  dress  on — ^and 
if  you  don't  like  it,  off  it  comes!" 

72 


Concerning  a  Frock 

"Well,  all  right."  (This  with  a  sudden  calm 
which  was  not  reassuring.) 

Flora  shpped  the  gingham  dress  into  place,  and 
patted  it  here  and  there  with  the  air  of  one  who 
admires,  and  viewed  it  with  her  head  inclined  a 
little,  as  women  do  in  such  a  situation.  "It's  the 
dearest  thing!"  she  said  honestly.  "Now  come 
and  see  how  you  look." 

The  mirror  was  a  Httle  high.  She  lifted  Bonnie 
May  to  a  chair. 

She  was  alarmed  by  what  ensued.  The  child 
stared  fixedly,  with  incredulous  eyes  in  which  a 
great  horror  grew. 

"Oh,  Lord!"  she  cried,  clapping  her  hands  over 
her  eyes.    "Take  it  off !    Take  it  off !" 

"What  in  the  world  is  the  matter?"  demanded 
Flora. 

"  She  asks  me  what  is  the  matter !  Oh,  heavens ! " 
Bonnie  May  jmnped  down  from  the  chair  and 
turned  her  back  to  the  mirror.  She  was  wringing 
her  hands. 

"I  don't  understand  at  all!"  exclaimed  Miss 
Baron  hopelessly. 

"You  might !"  was  the  emphatic  rejoinder.  "Do 
you  suppose  I  want  to  play  that  kind  of  a  part — 
here?  It  might  do  for  the  Httle  sister  of  a  sewing- 
machine  girl,  or  a  mountain-pink  with  her  hair  in 
knobs.  But  it  wouldn't  do  for  anything  else.  If 
you  was  only  one  of  the  populace,  a  costume  like 
that  would  cause  a  scream!    If  you  don't  under- 

73 


Bonnie  May 

stand  it,  take  my  word  for  it.  I  can't  wear  it !  I 
ask  you  to  take  it  off !" 

Miss  Baron  became  very  quiet.  She  became 
thoughtful,  too.  She  had  not  failed  to  catch  the 
drift  of  these  exaggerated  words.  There  was  some- 
thing prim,  something  rudimentary,  about  the 
dress.  Color  suffused  her  cheeks;  she  hung  her 
head.  She  felt  a  forlorn  inchnation  to  laugh.  From 
a  vantage  point  behind  the  child  she  began  to  re- 
move the  gingham  dress. 

It  was  inappropriate.  She  had  to  admit  it.  It 
was  a  dress  for  a  Gretchen;  for  the  Cinderella  of 
the  kitchen,  rather  than  the  princess  of  the  coach- 
and-four.    It  wasn't  becoming  at  aU. 


74 


CHAPTER  VII 
A  SUNDAY  MORNING 

The  Barons  were  the  kind  of  family  that  have 
just  one  morning  newspaper  left  at  their  door  on 
Sunday,  and  who  beHeve  that  it  contains  every- 
thing that  ought  to  concern  them  in  any  way — 
that  whatever  is  pubHshed  in  any  other  newspaper 
is  to  be  regarded  with  scepticism,  or  lightly  dis- 
credited. 

Yet  on  this  particular  Sunday  morning  Victor 
Baron  arose  early  and  intercepted  the  paper-carrier, 
and  amazed  that  industrious  youth  by  buying  a 
copy  of  every  journal  he  carried. 

With  this  not  inconsiderable  burden  imder  his 
arm  he  betook  himself  to  the  Hbrary  and  began  an 
eager  search  for  certain  information. 

He  scanned  all  the  advertising  columns  system- 
atically, and  then  turned  to  the  news  departments. 

A  great  heap  of  discarded  "sections"  grew  about 
him  as  he  progressed,  and  little  by  little  a  look  of 
troubled  anticipation  vanished  from  his  eyes.  The 
last  section  of  the  last  paper  was  cast  away  with 
an  air  of  triumph. 

He  hadn't  been  able  to  find  a  single  word  about 
any  child  who  was  lost,  or  who  had  strayed,  or  who 
had  been  stolen! 

75 


Bonnie  May 

"  Good ! "  he  exclaimed,  and  he  looked  with  great 
rehef  at  the  heap  of  papers  about  him,  their  splotches 
of  color  and  assertive  head-lines  having  no  further 
interest  for  him.    He  smiled  complacently. 

In  the  meantime,  in  the  sunny  sitting-room  up- 
stairs. Flora  had  broken  the  news  to  Mrs.  Baron — 
the  news  touching  Bonnie  May  and  the  new  dress. 

It  had  been  a  very  difficult  thing  to  do,  because 
Mrs.  Baron  was  always  at  her  worst  on  Sunday 
mornings. 

It  was  on  Sunday  mornings  that  she  felt  most 
keenly  the  lapse  of  the  neighborhood  from  former 
glories  to  a  condition  of  sordid  griminess.  It  was 
on  these  mornings  that  she  fared  forth  to  the  old 
church,  only  three  blocks  away,  in  which  the  best 
people  in  town  had  formerly  worshipped,  but  which 
had  been  deserted  by  nearly  all  the  old  parish- 
ioners. 

It  was  Mrs.  Baron's  contention  that  it  was  in- 
dehcate,  to  say  the  least,  for  people  to  desert  a 
church.  There  were  things  in  the  church  Hfe,  she 
maintained,  which  could  not  be  transplanted,  and 
which  constituted  the  very  warp  and  woof  of  the 
domestic  as  well  as  the  social  foundations.  She 
had  come  to  regard  herself  as  a  kind  of  standard- 
bearer  in  this  relationship,  and  she  attended  ser- 
vices somewhat  ostentatiously,  with  the  belief  that 
she  was  not  only  lending  her  influence,  but  ad- 
ministering a  rebuke  as  well.  Ignoring  the  pro- 
tests of  her  family,  she  had  even  consented  to  play 

76 


A  Sunday  Morning 

the  organ  for  the  Sunday-school  services.  As  ^ 
young  lady  she  had  learned  to  read  music,  as  sL 
matter  of  course,  and  though  she  possessed  no 
musical  intelligence,  and  had  found  it  impossible  to 
regain  the  old  manual  skill  she  had  once  possessed, 
she  played  the  simple  hymns  with  a  kind  of  proud 
rigor,  because  she  beHeved  her  participation  in  the 
services  in  this  direction  must  impart  an  authority 
to  the  proceedings  which  the  abler  playing  of  some 
obscure  individual  could  not  have  imparted. 

Indeed,  Mrs.  Baron  was  a  personage  on  Simday 
mornings;  a  gaUant  general  leading  a  forlorn  hope 
proudly  and  firmly. 

When  Flora  confessed  to  her  that  the  dress  had 
been  rejected,  she  was  too  greatly  amazed  to  say 
a  great  deal.  She  had  also  entered  upon  her  stoic- 
mood — ^her  Sunday-morning  mood. 

"You  see,  she  is  simply  determined  not  to  get 
along,"  she  declared  with  finahty.  She  took  the 
dress  into  her  own  hands  and  regarded  it  critically .- 
"Do  you  see  how  carefully  the  feather-stitching  is- 
done?"  she  demanded. 

"Yes,"  agreed  Flora,  "the — the  feather-stitching 
is  beautiful.  But  really,  I  don't  believe  she  i& 
simply  perverse.  If  you  could  have  seen  the  dis-- 
may  in  her  eyes — "    Flora  smiled  at  the  recollectionr 

"I've  seen  women  like  that,"  Mrs.  Baron  con-^ 
tinned,  "women  who  like  to  make  difficulties ;  who 
go  into  hysterics  over  little  things.  It's  always 
just  a  lack  of  sense — that's  all  it  is." 

77 


Bonnie  May 

"Yes — or  temperament.  I  expect  there's  a  good 
deal  in  what  people  call  temperament.  I  didn't 
know  children  had  it  so  much,  but  Bonnie  May 
isn't  like  other  children.  Maybe  she  has  a  good 
deal  of  temperament." 

They  examined  the  dress  together  without  any 
very  definite  purpose. 

"  She  ought  to  know  she  can't  go  on  wearing  that 
•silly  thing  she  came  here  in,"  was  Mrs.  Baron's 
next  comment. 

"She  must  realize  that,"  agreed  Flora.  She 
added  casually:  "I  think  something  soft,  with  a 
little  color  in  it,  might  please  her.  You  might  let 
me  try  next  time." 

This  was  the  wrong  note  again.  "As  if  I  weren't 
capable  of  making  a  child's  dress!"  protested  Mrs. 
Baron. 

"I  only  meant  it  would  be  fair  to  divide  the 
work,"  Flora  explained  gently.  "I  didn't  mean  I 
could  do  it  better." 

As  if  her  anger  had  been  effectually  checked  in 
that  direction,  Mrs.  Baron  hit  upon  another  pos- 
sible grievance.  "And  she's  going  to  Sunday- 
school  to-day,"  she  affirmed  in  a  tone  which  seemed 
to  take  account  of  difficulties.  "We've  done  our 
best  to  dress  her  decently.  And  I  don't  intend  to 
humor  a  httle  pagan  as  long  as  she's  in  a  Christian 
household." 

"But  in  that — that  peculiar  dress?"  faltered 
Flora.  She  had  a  vision  of  Bonnie  May  in  her 
fantastic  old  frock  associating  with  the  prim  chil- 

78 


A  Sunday  Morning 

dren  of  poverty  who  were  now  the  mainstay  of  the 
Sunday-school. 

"She  may  walk  with  Mrs.  Shepard.  People  may 
believe  she  belongs  to  her,  if  they  want  to." 

"Oh,  mother!"  There  was  something  almost 
despairing  in  Flora*s  tone. 

"It's  the  best  we  can  do.  I  mean  to  do  my  duty 
— and  I'm  not  willing  to  look  ridiculous." 

Again  Miss  Baron  perceived  breakers  ahead. 
If  the  child  conceived  the  idea  that  she  was  being 
commanded  to  go  anywhere  she  would  very  prob- 
ably develop  new  methods  of  resistance.  If  she 
were  poUtely  invited  to  accompany  other  members 
of  the  household  to  church,  she  might  decide  to  be 
altogether  gracious. 

She  entertained  a  lingering  regret  that  the  guest 
could  not  be  persuaded  to  wear  the  new  dress — ^in 
which,  certainly,  she  would  be  conspicuous  enough, 
but  not  quite  in  a  flaunting  fashion.  She  even 
thought  of  Victor,  and  wondered  if  he  might  not 
be  able  to  prevail  upon  the  child  to  accede  to  the 
wishes  of  her  elders.  But  upon  second  thought 
she  decided  not  to  involve  her  brother  in  a  phase 
of  the  problem  which  did  not  touch  him.  She  sus- 
pected there  would  be  other  phases,  more  in  his 
line,  in  due  time. 

In  the  meanwhile,  the  object  of  all  this  solicitous 
thought  was  leisurely  preparing  to  make  her  ap- 
pearance. 

That  she  had  no  fresh  raiment  to  put  on  was 

79 


Bonnie  May 

not  particularly  disquieting.  The  fact  that  it  was 
a  Sunday  morning  made  no  difference  to  her  at 
all.  Certainly  she  needed  fresh  linen,  but  this, 
she  philosophically  concluded,  would  be  provided 
within  another  day  or  two.  Her  shoes  were  quite 
new  and  neat,  and  she  was  by  no  means  ashamed 
of  the  dress  which  now  constituted  her  complete 
wardrobe. 

On  a  chair  by  her  bed  she  made  discoveries. 
There  was  a  fresh  towel;  a  little  package  which 
obviously  contained  a  tooth-brush;  a  box  of  tooth- 
powder,  and — crowning  gift — a  new  hair-ribbon  of 
adorable  width  and  hue. 

She  tucked  these  things  under  one  arm,  and  with 
her  free  hand  she  carefully  gathered  Flora's  long 
nightgown  away  from  her  feet.  Then  she  started 
to  the  bathroom. 

In  the  hall  she  paused  to  be  sure  that  the  way 
was  clear. 

Silence  reigned,  save  for  the  murmur  of  voices 
down-stairs — ^far,  indistinct. 

The  hall  was  glorious  with  indirect  rays  of  the 
sun.  It  had  wonderful  spaciousness,  too.  Bonnie 
May  gazed  down  the  broad  stairway,  duskily  bright 
and  warm  and  silent,  and  her  expression  was  quite 
blissful.  She  turned  and  looked  up  to  the  landing 
above — ^reached  by  a  narrower  flight  of  stairs.  It 
seemed  splendidly  remote,  and  here  the  sunlight 
fell  in  a  riotous  flood. 

Her  sensations  must  have  been  something  akin 

80 


A  Sunday  Morning 

to  those  of  a  mocking-bird  that  inspects  the  vernal 
world  in  May.  She  released  the  folds  of  the  night- 
gown and  "paraded"  to  and  fro  in  the  hall,  looking 
back  over  her  shoulder  at  the  train.  She  had  put 
the  garment  on  again,  after  Flora's  advent  with 
the  gingham  dress,  primarily  for  the  purpose  of 
making  the  journey  from  her  room  to  her  bath. 
But  there  had  been  a  distinct  pleasure  in  wearing 
it,  too.  She  thought  it  made  her  look  like  a  fairy- 
queen.  She  felt  the  need  of  a  tinsel  crown  and  a 
wand  with  a  gilded  star  at  its  end. 

She  was  executing  a  regal  turn  in  the  hall  when 
her  glance  was  attracted  upward  to  some  moving 
object  on  the  landing  above. 

A  most  extraordinary  ancient  man  stood  there 
watching  her. 

Realizing  that  he  had  been  discovered,  he  turned 
in  a  kind  of  panic  and  disappeared  into  regions  un- 
known. His  mode  of  locomotion  was  quite  unusual. 
If  Bonnie  May  had  been  familiar  with  nautical 
terms  she  would  have  said  that  he  was  tacking,  as 
he  made  his  agitated  exit. 

As  for  Bonnie  May,  she  scampered  into  the  bath- 
room, the  flowing  train  suddenly  gripped  in  her 
fingers. 

Down-stairs  they  were  Hstening  for  her,  though 
they  pretended  not  to  be  doing  so.  They  heard 
her  in  the  bathroom;  later  they  heard  movements 
in  her  bedroom.  And  at  last  she  was  descending 
the  stairs  leisurely,  a  care-free  song  on  her  Hps. 

8i 


Bonnie  May 

She  invaded  the  dining-room.  Mr.  Baron  had 
been  Hngering  over  his  coffee.  The  various  parts 
of  the  morning  paper  were  all  about  him. 

"Good  morning,"  was  Bonnie  May's  greeting. 
She  nodded  brightly.    "I  hope  I'm  not  intruding?" 

"Not  at  all!"  Mr.  Baron  glanced  at  her  with 
real  friendliness.  It  had  not  occurred  to  him  that 
her  dress  was  fantastic.  What  he  had  noticed  was 
that  her  face  was  positively  radiant,  and  that  she 
spoke  as  he  imagined  a  duchess  might  have  done. 

"You  might  like  to  look  at  the  colored  supple- 
ment," he  added,  fishing  around  through  the  vari- 
ous sections  of  the  paper  at  his  feet. 

"I  thank  you,  I'm  sure;  but  isn't  it  rather  silly?" 
She  added  deferentially:  "Is  there  a  theatrical 
page?" 

Mr.  Baron  coughed  slightly,  as  he  always  did 
when  he  was  disconcerted.  "There  is,  I  beHeve," 
he  said.  He  glanced  over  his  shoulder  toward  a 
closed  door.  "I'm  not  sure  Mrs.  Baron  would  ap- 
prove of  your  looking  at  the  theatrical  department 
on  Sunday,"  he  added. 

"Really!  And  you  don't  think  she'd  see  any 
harm  in  looking  at  the  comic  pictures?" 

Mr.  Baron  removed  his  glasses  and  wiped  them 
carefully.  "She  would  prt)bably  regard  the  comic 
pictures  as  the  lesser  of  two  evils,"  he  said. 

"Well,  I  never  did  like  to  be  a  piker.  If  I'm  go- 
ing into  a  thing,  I  like  to  go  in  strong."  ,  She  made 
this  statement  pleasantly. 

82 


A  most  extraordinary  ancient  man  stood  there  watching  her. 


A  Sunday  Morning 

Mr.  Baron  put  his  glasses  on  somewhat  hurriedly 
and  looked  hard  at  the  child.  He  perceived  that 
she  was  looking  at  him  frankly  and  with  a  sUght 
constriction  at  her  throat,  as  was  always  the  case 
when  she  felt  she  must  hold  her  ground  against 
attack. 

"I  rather  think  you're  right,"  he  said  reassur- 
ingly. "I'm  not  sure  I  know  how  to  find  the  theat- 
rical page.    Would  you  mind  looking?" 

But  Flora  interrupted  here.  She  entered  the 
room  with  the  air  of  one  who  has  blessings  to  be- 
stow. 

"You're  invited  to  go  to  Sunday-school  with  us 
after  a  whUe,"  she  informed  the  guest. 

"You're  very  kind,  I'm  sure.    What's  it  like?" 

"Oh,  there  are  children,  and  music,  and — "  Flora 
paused.  She  wished  to  make  her  statement  attrac- 
tive as  well  as  truthful. 

"A  kind  of  spectacle?"  suggested  the  guest. 

"Hardly  that.  But  there's  somebody  to  tell 
stories.    It's  very  nice,  I  think." 

"It  certainly  sounds  good  to  me.  If  they've 
got  any  good  people  I  might  like  to  get  into  it, 
until  I  find  an  opening  in  my  own  line." 

Mr.  Baron  removed  his  glasses  again.  "Flora, 
would  you  undertake  to  tell  me  what  she  means?" 
he  inquired. 

Miss  Baron  pinched  her  lips  and  looked  at  him 
with  a  kind  of  ripple  of  joy  in  her  eyes.  "Isn't 
it  plain?"  she  asked.     She  went  out  of  the  room 

83 


Bonnie  May 

tlien,  and  he  heard  her  laughing  somewhere  in  the 
distance. 

He  coughed  again  and  turned  to  his  paper,  and 
go,  for  the  first  time  io  her  Hfe,  Bonnie  May  was  in 
9,  fair  way  of  going  to  Sunday-school. 

Victor  didn't  approve  of  the  idea  at  all,  when  it 
was  presently  made  known  to  him.  He  waylaid 
his  mother  in  the  diniug-room  at  a  time  when  there 
was  no  one  else  about. 

"Why  not  wait  until  she  can  get  some  things?" 
he  asked. 

"Victor,"  replied  Mrs.  Baron,  holding  her  head 
very  high,  "you're  assuming  that  that  extraor- 
dinary Httle  creature  is  going  to  stay  here.  I  as- 
sure you,  she's  not.  This  may  be  the  only  chance 
ghe'll  ever  have  to  place  herself  in  the  way  of  a 
helpful  influence  on  Sunday.  She's  going  to  Sun- 
day-school to-day." 

"Governess,"  responded  Victor,  smiling  stead- 
ily, "if  you  don't  quit  getting  angry  with  me  I 
mean  to  sue  for  separate  maintenance.  Mark  my 
words."  After  which  nothing  more  was  said  on 
the  subject. 

Victor  betook  himself  to  the  Hbrary,  however, 
land  indulged  in  a  moment  of  fidgeti&g.  Breakers 
were  ahead---that  was  certain. 

It  was  forcing  things,  anyway.  He  took  down 
his  Emersoii  and  turned  to  a  passage  which  his 
mother  long  ago  had  pronounced  a  thm^  holding 
low  heathen  sentijnents.   He  read; 

34 


A  Sunday  Morning 

"And  why  drag  this  dead  weight  of  a  Simday- 
school  over  the  whole  of  Christendom?  It  is  beau- 
tiful and  natural  that  children  should  inquire  and 
maturity  should  teach,  but  it  is  time  enough  to 
answer  questions  when  they  are  asked.  Do  not 
shut  up  the  young  people  against  their  will  in  a 
pew  and  force  the  children  to  ask  them  questions 
against  their  will." 

He  could  not  dismiss  from  his  mind  the  picture 
of  Bonnie  May  asking  questions  in  her  elfin  yet 
penetrating  way,  and  he  realized  that  the  answers 
she  would  get  in  that  place  of  ordered  forms  and 
conventions  might  be  very  far  from  satisfactory 
to  one  of  her  somewhat  fearful  frankness  and 
honesty. 

But  suddenly  he  smiled  at  the  pictures  he  was 
drawing  in  his  mind.  "She  seems  pretty  well  able 
to  take  care  of  herself,"  he  concluded. 

He  came  upon  the  heaped  sections  of  the  news- 
papers he  had  examined.  That  reminded  him. 
The  newspapers  were  not  the  only  source  of  in- 
formation— ^nor  perhaps  the  most  likely  source — 
so  far  as  his  immediate  needs  were  concerned. 

No,  there  was  a  certain  visit  he  must  make  that 
morning. 

A  Httle  later  he  emerged  from  the  mansion  and 
stood  for  an  instant  on  the  steps  in  the  brilliant 
sunHght.  Then  he  descended  the  steps  and  was 
gone. 


8s 


CHAPTER  VIII 
STILL  UNCLAIMED 

Baron  was  on  his  way  to  see  Thomburg. 

On  six  days  and  seven  nights  Thomburg  was 
one  of  the  busiest  men  in  town.  But  there  was 
one  day  in  the  week  when  he  liked  to  pose  as  a 
man  of  leisure.  From  ten  or  eleven  o'clock  on 
Sunday  morning,  and  imtil  the  latter  part  of  the 
afternoon,  there  were  few  people  about  the  theatre 
to  disturb  him  or  to  claim  his  attention.  And 
during  these  hours  it  was  his  practise  to  lean  back 
in  the  comfortable  chair  in  his  private  office  in  the 
theatre  and  look  through  old  letters  and  souvenirs, 
if  there  were  no  callers,  or  to  exchange  current 
gossip  or  old  reminiscences  with  the  people  of  his 
profession  who  dropped  in  to  see  him.  Usually 
these  were  managers  or  agents  who  happened  to 
be  in  town,  and  sometimes  there  were  veteran 
players  who  were  retired,  or  who  were  temporarily 
unemployed.  And  occasionally  there  were  poUti- 
cians  who  liked  to  keep  on  affable  terms  with  the 
source  of  free  passes. 

When  Baron  entered  the  manager's  presence  he 
found  that  usually  engaged  person  quite  at  Uberty. 

The  little  office  was  a  place  which  was  not  with- 
out its  fascination  to  most  people.    On  the  walls 

86 


Still  Unclaimed 

there  were  framed  photographs  of  Jefferson  as 
Rip  Van  Winkle,  of  Booth  as  Richard  III,  of 
.  Modjcska  as  Portia,  and  of  other  notable  players. 
In  many  cases  the  pictiu*es  bore  sprawling  auto- 
graphs across  their  faces,  low  enough  not  to  hmrt. 
Between  these  authentic  ornaments  there  were 
fanciful  sketches  of  dancing  girls  in  extravagant 
costumes  and  postures,  and  a  general  ornamenta- 
tion scheme  of  masks  and  foils  and  armor. 

So  complacent  and  open-minded  was  Thorn- 
burg  when  Baron  appeared  that  the  latter  came 
to  a  swift,  seemingly  irrelevant  conclusion. 

"Nobody  has  claimed  her !  She's  going  to  stay !" 
were  the  words  that  formed  themselves  in  Baron's 
mind.  The  dull,  monotonous  aspects  of  the  old 
mansion  were  to  be  changed.  A  new  voice,  like  a 
melody  rising  above  droning  chords,  was  to  greet 
his  ears  at  morning  and  night.  A  thing  of  beauty 
was  to  take  its  place  before  the  background  of  dull, 
long-established  things. 

No  one  had  come  to  Thomburg  to  demand  of 
him  the  child  who  had  disappeared  from  his  prem- 
ises— Baron  could  read  as  much  in  the  manager's 
expression.    Wonderful !    Truly  wonderful ! 

"You  haven't  had  any  word  yet?"  he  began. 

Thomburg  was  used  to  Baron's  ways.  He  had 
a  friendly  contempt  for  the  dilettante  young  man 
about  town  and  newspaper  writer  who  could  have 
made  a  place  for  himself,  as  everybody  agreed,  if 
he  had  chosen  to  do  so,  but  who  indulged  himself 

87 


Bonnie  May 

by  following  his  own  ill-directed  bent,  merely  be- 
cause he  was — well,  because  he  was  Baron — or  a 
Baron. 

"Not  a  word,"  he  replied,  smiling  indulgently, 
as  if  the  matter  were  really  not  at  all  surprising. 

Baron  read  the  other's  thought.  '^But  a  child 
like  that ! "  he  exclaimed. 

"People  are  sometimes  strange,"  said  Thorn- 
burg.  "Now,  if  she  had  been  a  trained  dog,  or  a 
cat  with  an  unusual  pedigree,  or  a  horse  with  power 
to  draw  loads — then  she  would  have  been  hunted 
up  quick  enough.    But  you  see,  she's  only  a  child." 

Baron  shook  his  head.  He  was  rejecting  all 
this  as  inadequate. 

"She's  still  with  you?"  continued  the  manager. 

"Yes.    I'm  hoping  she'U  remain  with  us." 

"She  hke  it  there?" 

"Like  it?"  echoed  Baron.  He  couldn't  answer 
the  question.  He  thought  of  something  more  per- 
tinent to  say.  "It  means  that  she  will  have  a  home 
— ^if  we  can  keep  her." 

Thornburg  nodded  slowly.  "I  don't  think  any- 
thing better  could  happen  to  her  than  for  you  to 
keep  her,"  he  said.  "I  suppose  she'll  get  the  kind 
of  care  a  little  girl  of  her  kind  needs.  If  she's  just 
a  waif  of  the  theatre  she  probably  has  a  lot  to  learn 
about — oh,  about  life  and  real  things." 

"Very  likely,"  Baron  agreed.  He  added:  "I 
was  hoping  you  might  throw  some  light  on  the 
case — ^as  to  who  she  is  and  where  she  came  from." 

88 


Still  Unclaimed 

Thornburg  shook  his  head.  "No,  I  couldn't," 
he  said. 

"About  her  coming  to  the  theatre " 

"A  woman  brought  her  to  the  theatre  and  asked 
to  be  admitted.  She  belonged  to  the  profession — 
the  woman.  We  usually  pass  them  in  if  there's 
any  room.  There  happened  to  be  just  one  seat 
left  down-stairs — ^in  the  back  row — and  I  told  her 
she  could  have  that.  I  supposed  she  would  hold 
the  Httle  girl  on  her  lap.  I  was  provoked  when  I 
saw  she  had  let  her  wander  up  into  the  box  where 
you  were.    In  fact,  I  spoke  to  her  about  it." 

"And  you  don't  know  who  the  woman  was — 
even  by  reputation?" 

"Oh,  there  are  thousands  of  such  people — ^people 
who  are  'of  the  profession.'  Vaudeville  people, 
circus  performers,  members  of  Httle  stock  com- 
panies, third-rate  travelling  troupes — they  all  ask 
for  free  seats." 

Baron  reflected.  "I  suppose,"  he  said  at  length, 
"such  people  are  often  in  financial  straits?" 

"My  goodness,  yes!    Almost  always." 

"If  she — this  actress — had  really  wanted  to  find 
the  child,  she  surely  would  have  made  inquiries 
here  at  the  theatre  before  now,  wouldn't  she?" 

"It  would  seem  so — certainly." 

"What  I'm  getting  at  is  this:  It  looks  a  good 
deal  like  dehberate  desertion,  doesn't  it?" 

"Yes,  I  should  say  so." 

"And  that's  what  I  simply  can't  believe,"  de- 

89 


Bonnie  May 

clared  Baron.  "Still,"  he  added,  "under  the  cir- 
cumstances, I  ought  to  be  justified  in  not  saying 
anything — ^in  assuming  that  I  have  a  right  to  keep 
what  has  come  into  my  possession?" 

"Well,  for  the  time  being,  certainly.  Of  course, 
there  may  be  developments  sooner  or  later.  She 
must  belong  to  somebody;  I  mean,  she  must  have 
a  home  somewhere." 

"No,  she  hasn't." 

"But  of  course  you  can't  be  sure  of  that." 

"I  am.    She's  my  authority." 

"You  mean  she  told  you  that?  It  was  prob- 
ably a  childish  fancy — or  a  downright  falsehood. 
You  have  to  take  into  account  all  manner  of  pos- 
sible circumstances.'* 

"I  think  she  told  me  the  truth.  She  doesn't 
seem  fanciful,  in  that  way.  She  has  the  most  re- 
markable sort  of  intelligence — of  frankness." 

Thornburg's  eyes  brightened  with  interest.  "Has 
she,  really?"  he  asked.  There  was  an  interval  of 
silence  and  then  the  manager  laughed.  "It  strikes 
me  that  you're  an  odd  sort  of  a  chap.  Baron,"  he 
said.  "What  was  your  idea  in  taking  her  home — 
a  stray  child  like  that?" 

"I  don't  think  it  was  so  very  remarkable.  She 
wanted  to  go  with  me,  for  one  thing.  She  seemed 
quite  delighted  at  the  prospect  of  having  a  real 
home." 

The  manager  turned  this  statement  over  in  his 
mind  so  long  that  Baron  supposed  he  was  thinking 

90 


Still  Unclaimed 

of  something  else.  He  sat,  his  hands  clasped  be- 
hind his  head,  regarding  one  of  the  pictures  on  the 
wall,  well  over  Baron's  head.  Then  he  aroused 
himself  abruptly. 

"What's  your  plan  regarding  her?"  he  asked. 

"I  don't  know  that  I've  got  that  far  yet.  She'll 
have  the  usual  schooling  and  the  sort  of  training 
that  is  customary.  When  she's  grown —  Well, 
it's  hard  to  look  far  ahead,  where  a  child  like  that 
is  concerned.  Of  course,  if  Miss  Barry  ever  turns 
up.  .  .  .  She  would  have  claims  we  couldn't  ig- 
nore.'* 

"Who's  Miss  Barry?" 

"She's  the  woman  who  brought  Bonnie  May  to 
the  theatre.  If  you  know  of  an  actress  by  that 
name " 

"I  don't." 

"  She  probably  hasn't  very  much  standing.  From 
what  Bonnie  May  said  I  judge  she  belongs  to  that 
vast  army  we  never  hear  much  about  in  the 
cities." 

"It's  like  this,  Baron,"  said  the  manager,  with 
the  air  of  a  man  who  hasn't  time  for  useless  specula- 
tions, "I'm  thinking,  and  I  suppose  you're  think- 
ing", that  under  the  circumstances  I  ought  to  as- 
sume some  of  the  responsibihty  for  a  waif  who  was 
lost  on  my  premises.  I'd  want  to  be  fair  about  it, 
you  know." 

"But  I  wasn't  thinking  anything  of  the  kind," 
declared  Baron. 

91 


Bonnie  May 

Thoraburg  frowned  impatiently.  "She'll  be  a 
burden  to  you,  of  course,"  he  argued.  "And  there's 
clearly  my  share  of  the  responsibihty " 

"I  didn't  say  anything  about  a  burden.  The 
word  was  yours.  Of  course  I  had  to  take  her  home 
with  me.  Or  at  least  that's  the  way  I  felt  about  it. 
You  simply  couldn't  turn  a  child  like  that  over  to 
an  orphan  asylum,  or  to  the  police.  You  would  as 
readily  think  of  asking  some  grand  dame  to  turn 
a  handspring  as  to  expect  Bonnie  May  to  put  on 
a  uniform  with  a  lot  of  other  unclaimed  children, 
and  go  through  the  usual  order  of  childish  occupa- 
tions. Somebody  has  got  to  look  after  her  in  a  dif- 
ferent way:  somebody  who  understands.  But  I 
wouldn't  think  of  her  being  a  burden  any  more 
than  I  would  think  of  pigeons  or  flowers  being  a 
burden." 

Again  Thomburg  laughed.  "Still,  most  people 
are  pretty  willing  not  to  have  white  elephants 
thrust  upon  them." 

Baron  regarded  him  steadily,  in  silence.  There 
was  a  sort  of  threat  in  that — or  a  prophecy.  And 
there  was  indicated  that  attitude  of  mind  which 
sees  no  beauty  in  a  generous  deed.  And  these 
were  reflections  which  Baron  did  not  care  to  put 
into  words. 

The  manager  became  uncomfortable  under  that 
glance.  "You  see,"  he  explained,  "I  can't  help 
thinking.  ...  Is  it  possible  that  a  little  foot- 
light  butterfly  will  be  comfortable  very  long  in  a 

92 


Still  Unclaimed 

home  like — ^in  a  home  where  everything  is — ^is  just 
so?"  He  flushed  a  Httle  from  the  effort  to  avoid 
offensive  inferences  or  words.  "Won't  she  be 
lonesome  and  out  of  place  after  the  novelty  of  the 
thing  passes?" 

Baron  liked  that.  It  was  frank  and  honest.  "I 
don't  think  she'll  be  lonesome,"  he  declared. 
"Mother  will  see  that  she  gets  interested  in  things: 
in  music,  probably,  or  anything  she  manifests  a 
taste  for.  She's  too  bright  to  feel  out  of  place,  if 
she's  helped  in  the  right  way." 

"It  might  work  out  all  right."  Thomburg 
nodded.  "I'll  tell  you,"  he  added,  "suppose  you 
let  me  help  with  the  job." 

"Help !"  echoed  Baron.    "You  mean " 

"By  writing  a  little  check  once  a  month." 

"That  won't  be  necessary.  So  far  as  the  ex- 
pense is  concerned  that  will  scarcely  be  worth 
considering." 

"Nonsense!  You  could  use  it,  if  only  for  extra 
dresses  and  trinkets.  I've  no  doubt  she'll  want  a 
lot  of  things." 

That  was  exactly  like  a  theatrical  man*s  ideas, 
Baron  thought.  But  he  couldn't  tell  Thomburg 
that  his  mother  would  be  sure  to  oppose  anything 
that  would  tend  to  promote  childish  vanity,  espe- 
cially in  the  case  of  one  who  was  already  inclined 
to  overestimate  mere  appearances.  The  gewgaws 
of  the  average  petted  and  spoiled  child  would  have 
to   give   place  to  simplicity  and  true  childishness. 

93 


Bonnie  May 

Still,  he  didn't  wish  to  offend  Thornburg,  whose 
suggestion  had  doubtless  been  based  upon  a  gen- 
erous impulse. 

"It  might  be  managed,"  he  said.  "We'll  speak 
of  that  another  time." 

He  arose  and  began  to  shape  a  casual  exit. 
**  There's  nobody  now  to  take  their  places,"  he  said, 
indicating  the  portraits  of  Jefferson  and  Booth  and 
■the  others. 

"Not  by  a  thousand  miles,"  agreed  Thornburg. 
His  thoughts  seemed  to  have  been  transferred  eas- 
ily to  the  players  who  were  gone. 

But  when  Baron  emerged  from  the  theatre  and 
lost  himself  in  the  throng  which  the  fine  May  fore- 
noon had  attracted  from  hotels  and  side  streets, 
his  face  brightened  with  the  joy  which  he  felt  he 
need  no  longer  conceal. 

"She's  ours!"  were  the  words  that  sang  within 
him.  _" We're  going  to  keep  her!" 


94 


CHAPTER  DC 
A  DISAPPOINTING  PERFORMANCE 

Baron  looked  at  his  watch  twice  as  he  climbed 
the  stairs.  Yes,  the  family  had  had  time  to  retmn 
from  church;  but  they  had  not  done  so.  Mrs. 
Shepard  was  busy  in  the  dining-room,  but  other- 
wise the  house  was  unoccupied.  Silence  reigned 
in  the  upper  regions. 

Thomason,  the  houseman,  was  looking  impa- 
tiently down  from  the  upper  landing;  but  Thoma- 
son didn't  count.  He  was  probably  hungry.  Baron 
realized  that  he,  too,  was  hungry. 

He  went  into  the  cheerful  sitting-room  and 
looked  do\Mi  upon  the  street,  and  instantly  his  at- 
titude changed. 

There  they  came!  And  something  was  wrong. 
Oh,  plainly,  something  was  wrong. 

Mrs.  Baron's  head  was  held  high;  she  was  pale; 
her  Ups  were  compressed.  There  was  nothing  gra- 
cious in  her  carriage.    She  was  marching. 

By  her  side  walked  Flora,  keeping  step  with  dif- 
ficulty. She  appeared  to  be  fighting  off  all  realiza- 
tion of  her  mother's  state. 

Mrs.  Shepard  was  no  longer  present  to  lend  her' 
support  to  Bonnie  May.    The  faithftd  servitor  had 
come  home  immediately  after   Sunday-school  to 

95 


Bonnie  May- 
look  after  the  dinner,  and  the  child  walked  alone, 
behind  her  silent  elders.  Her  whole  being  radiated 
defiance.  She  was  apparently  taking  in  every  as- 
pect of  the  street,  but  her  casual  bearing  was  obvi- 
ously studied;  the  determined  effort  she  was  making 
was  not  to  be  concealed. 

Baron  hurried  down-stairs  so  that  he  might 
meet  them  in  the  hall,  and  engineer  a  temporary 
dispersement.  He  was  affecting  a  calm  and  leisurely 
demeanor  when  the  door  opened  and  Mrs.  Baron, 
followed  by  the  others,  entered. 

There  was  an  ominous  silence.  Bonnie  May 
caught  sight  of  Baron  and  approached  him  with 
only  a  partial  concealment  of  eagerness  and  hurry. 

Mrs.  Baron  and  Flora  ascended  the  stairs:  the 
former  leading  the  way  sternly;  the  latter  moving 
upward  with  wan  cheeks  and  bowed  head. 

Baron  led  the  way  into  the  sitting-room,  Bonnie 
May  following.  He  pretended  not  to  see  or  to  ap- 
prehend anything  unusual.  "Well,  what  do  you 
think  of  Sunday-school?"  he  began  gayly. 

"I  think  it's  fierce!"  This  took  the  form  of  an 
explosion.  "It  wouldn't  do  even  for  one-night 
stands ! " 

Baron  felt  the  need  of  an  admonitory  attitude. 
"Bonnie  May,"  he  said,  "you  should  have  dis- 
covered that  it  wasn't  a  play.  It  was  something  real. 
It's  a  place  where  people  go  to  help  each  other." 

"They  certainly  need  help  all  right  enough." 
This  with  a  quite  imlovely  jeering  laugh. 

96 


A  Disappointing  Performance 

"I  wonder  what  you  mean  by  that?" 

"I  suppose  I  meant  the  same  thing  you  meant 
yourself." 

Baron  paused,  frowning.  "I  meant,"  he  ex- 
plained patiently,  "that  they  are  people  who  want 
to  be  as  good  as  they  can,  and  who  want  to  give 
one  another  encouragement." 

The  child  was  conscious  of  his  wish  to  be  con- 
cihatory.  She  tried  to  restrain  herself.  "Well," 
she  asked,  "if  they  want  to  be  good,  why  don't 
they  just  be  good?  What's  the  use  of  worrying 
about  it?" 

"I'm  afraid  it  isn't  quite  so  simple  a  matter  as 
all  that." 

Bonnie  May's  wrath  arose  in  spite  of  herself. 
She  was  recalling  certain  indignities.  "I  don't  see 
anything  in  it  but  a  bum  performance.  Do  you 
know  what  I  think  they  go  there  for?" 

"That's  what  I'm  trying  to  find  out." 

"I  think  they  go  there  to  watch  each  other — to 
find  out  something  bad  about  each  other." 

"Bonnie  May!" 

"I  do!  And  I've  had  pretty  near  enough,  too. 
You  asked  me  and  I  told  you.  You're  all  asking 
me  to  do  things,  and  asking  me  questions;  and 
then  if  I  don't  agree  with  you  in  every  way  I'm 
wrong.  That  may  look  all  right  to  you,  but  it 
doesn't  to  me.  If  I've  got  to  take  everything,  I 
mean  to  be  on  my  way." 

Baron  remained  silent  a  full  minute.     When  he 

97 


Bonnie  May 

spoke  again  his  voice  was  persuasive,  gentle.  "I'm 
anxious  to  understand  your  difficulties,"  he  said. 
"I'm  anxious  to  have  you  imderstand  ours.  I'm 
sorry  I  criticised  you.  I'm  sure  you  mean  to  be 
fair." 

She  looked  at  him  with  a  light  of  gratitude  in 
her  eyes,  a  quiver  of  emotion  passing  over  her  face. 
She  had  an  intense  desire  to  justify  herseK — at 
least  to  him. 

"Do  you  know  what  was  the  first  thing  they 
asked  me?" 

"Your  name,  probably." 

"No,  Mrs.  Shepard  told  them  that.  They  asked 
me  if  I  was  a  good  little  girl  T' 

"But  I  don't  see  any  harm  in  that.  Why 
shouldn't  they  have  asked  you  ?  " 

"You  don't!  Do  you  suppose  that  I  was  going 
to  tell  them  that  I  was — or  that  I  wasn't?  What 
nonsense!  Are  you  'a  good  young  man'?  How 
does  a  question  like  that  sound?" 

Baron  pondered.    "Well — "  he  suggested. 

"Well,  I  wouldn't  stand  it.  I  asked  her  if  she 
was  'a  good  old  woman' — and  the  frowzy  old  thing 
stared  at  me  just  as  ugly !  She  walked  way  down 
into  the  parquet  without  looking  back.  She'd 
been  grinning  when  she  asked  me.  I'll  bet  she 
won't  grin  like  that  very  soon  again." 

Baron  walked  to  the  window  and  looked  out 
dully,  to  gain  time. 

How  extraordinary  the  child's  attitude  was !    And 

98 


A  Disappointing  Performance 

yet.  .  .  .  He  could  understand  that  she  might 
have  been  the  only  child  in  the  troupe  with  which 
she  travelled,  and  that  her  older  companions, 
weary  of  mimicry  and  make-beheve  when  their 
work  was  done,  might  have  employed  very  frank, 
mature  speech  toward  each  other  and  their  young^ 
companion. 

He  turned  away  from  the  window  with  a  sigh. 
"Won't  you  take  my  word  for  it,  Bonnie  May, 
that  these  people  mean  well,  and  that  one  should 
speak  of  them  with  respect,  even  if  one  cannot 
speak  of  them  with  affection?" 

"But  they  don't  mean  well.  What's  the  good 
of  stalling  ?  "  She  turned  until  her  back  was  toward 
him,  and  sat  so,  her  cheek  in  her  hand,  and  her 
whole  body  eloquent  of  discouragement. 

An  instant  later  she  turned  toward  him  with, 
the  first  evidence  of  surrender  she  had  shown. 
Her  chin  quivered  and  her  eyes  were  filled  with 
misery.  "Did  you  tell  the  man  where  I  was,  so 
they  can  come  for  me  if  they  want  me?"  she 
asked. 

Here  spoke  the  child.  Baron  thought.  His  re- 
sentment fled  instantly.  "Truly  I  did,"  he  as- 
sured her.  "I  have  been  doing  everything  I  could 
think  of  to  help.    I  want  you  to  beUeve  that." 

"Oh,  I  do;  but  you  all  put  too  much  on  me. 
I  want  to  go  back  to  where  things  are  real " 

"Real,  child?  The  theatre,  and  plays,  and  make- 
believe  every  day?" 

99 


Bonnie  May 

"It*s  the  only  thing  that's  real.  You'd  know 
that  if  you  were  an  artist.  It  means  what's  true — 
that's  what  it  means.  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me 
there's  anything  real  in  all  the  putting  on  here  in 
this  house — the  way  you  hide  what  you  mean  and 
what  you  beheve  and  what  you  want?  Here's 
where  the  make-believe  is:  just  a  mean  make- 
beUeve  that  nothing  comes  of.  The  theatre  has  a 
make-believe  that  everybody  understands,  and  so 
it  really  isn't  a  make-believe,  and  something  good 
and  true  comes  of  it." 

Her  eyes  were  flashing.  Her  hands  had  been 
clasped  while  she  spoke  imtil  she  came  to  the  final 
clause.  Then  she  thrust  her  arms  forward  as  if 
she  would  grasp  the  good  and  true  thing  which 
came  of  the  make-believe  she  had  defended. 

When  Baron  spoke  again  his  words  came  slowly. 
"Bonnie  May,"  he  said,  "I  wish  that  you  and  I 
might  try,  like  good  friends,  to  understand  each 
other,  and  not  to  say  or  think  anything  bitter  or 
unkind.  Maybe  there  will  be  things  I  can  teach 
you.  I'm  sure  there  are  things  you  can  teach  me ! 
And  the  others  ...  I  honestly  believe  that  when 
we  all  get  better  acquainted  we'll  love  one  another 
truly." 

She  hung  her  head  pensively  a  moment,  and 
then,  suddenly,  she  laughed  heartily,  ecstatically. 

"What  is  it?"  he  asked,  vaguely  troubled. 

"I'm  thinking  it's  certainly  a  pretty  kettle  of 
fish  I've  got  into.    That's  all." 

lOO 


A  Disappointing  Performance 

"You  know  I  don't  quite  understand  that." 

"The  Sunday-school,  I  mean,  and  your  mother, 
and  everything.  They  put  me  in  with  a  lot  of  chil- 
dren"— this  somewhat  scornfully — "and  a  sort  of 
leading  lady  asked  us  riddles — is  that  what  you  call 
them?  One  of  them  was:  'How  long  did  it  take 
to  make  the  world  ? ' " 

"But  that  wasn't  a  riddle." 

"Well,  whatever  it  was;  and  they  caught  one 
Smart  Alec.  She  said, '  Forty  days  and  forty  nights,' 
and  they  all  laughed — so  you  could  see  it  was  just 
a  catch.  As  if  anybody  knew !  That  was  the  only 
fun  I  could  see  to  the  whole  performance,  and  it 
sounded  like  Rube  fun  at  that.  One  odious  little 
creature  looked  at  my  dress  a  long  time.  Then  she 
said:  'I've  got  a  new  dress.'  Another  looked  at  me 
and  sniffed,  and  sniffed,  and  sniffed.  She  wrinkled 
her  nose  and  lifted  her  Hp  every  time  she  sniffed. 
It  was  like  a  kind  of  signal.  Then  she  said:  'My 
papa  has  got  a  big  store,  and  we've  got  a  horse  and 
buggy.'  She  sniffed  again  and  looked  just  as  spite- 
ful! I  had  to  get  back  at  that  one.  'Don't  cry, 
little  one,'  I  said.  'Wait  until  it's  a  pretty  day 
and  I'll  come  around  and  take  you  out  in  my  auto- 
mobile.' " 

"But  you  haven't  any  automobile!" 

"That,"  with  great  emphasis,  "doesn't  make 
any  difference.  There's  no  harm  in  stringing  people 
of  a  certain  kind." 

"Oh,  Bonnie  May!"  cried  Baron  reproachfully, 

lOI 


Bonnie  May 

and  with  quickly  restored  calm  he  added:  "Surely 
one  should  tell  the  truth ! " 

"Yes,  one  should,  if  two  would.  But  you  can't 
afford  to  show  your  hand  to  every  BedeHa  that 
gets  into  your  troupe.  No,  you  can't,"  she  repeated 
defiantly,  reading  the  pained  look  in  his  eyes. 

Baron  knew  that  he  should  have  expressed  his 
disapproval  of  such  a  vagrant  philosophy  as  this; 
but  before  he  had  time  to  frame  a  tactful  response 
the  child  continued: 

"Then  the  leading  lady  turned  to  me,  thinking 
up  another  question.  I  made  up  my  mind  to  be 
on  hand  if  I  had  to  sleep  in  the  wings.  'Why  were 
Adam  and  Eve  driven  out  of  the  garden?'  was 
mine.  I  said:  'Because  they  couldn't  make  good!' 
She  looked  puzzled,  and  I  patted  her  on  the  knee. 
'You  can't  put  over  anything  on  me,'  I  said.  I 
think  I  shouted  it.  That  stopped  the  whole  show 
for  a  minute,  and  an  old  character  man  up  near 
the  stage  got  up  and  said:  'A  little  less  noise, 
please.'  Then  your  mother  came  back."  (Baron 
had  anticipated  this  detail.)  "She  had  been  taking 
the  leading  part  in  a  Httle  sketch  up  in  front." 
(Teaching  her  class.  Baron  reflected,  and  smiled 
wryly  in  spite  of  himself.)  "She  had  got  through 
with  her  musical  turn,  and — ^well,  I  don't  want  to 
talk  about  her.  She  told  me  I  must  sit  still  and 
listen  to  what  the  others  said.  Why?  I'd  like  to 
know.  I  couldn't  agree  with  her  at  all.  I  told 
her  I  was  a  professional  and  didn't  expect  to  pick 

I02 


A  Disappointing  Performance 

up  anything  from  a  lot  of  amateurs.  And  then," 
she  added  dejectedly,  "the  trouble  began." 

Baron  groaned.  He  had  hoped  the  worst  had 
been  told.  What  m  the  world  was  there  to  fol- 
low? 

"Your  mother,"  resimied  Bonnie  May,  "spoke 
to  the  woman  who  had  been  asking  questions. 
She  said — so  that  the  children  could  hear  every 
word — 'She's  a  poor  little  thing  who's  had  no 
bringing  up.    She'll  have  to  learn  how  to  behave.'  " 

She  hung  her  head  in  shame  at  the  recollection 
of  this.  For  the  moment  she  seemed  unwilling  to 
proceed. 

"And  what  happened  then?"  Baron  asked  per- 
suasively. 

"Oh — I  was  getting — rattled!  She  had  no  right 
to  work  in  a  line  like  that." 

"But  what  did  you  do?" 

"I  told  her.  .  .  .  You  know  I  am  sorry,  don't 
you?" 

"Maybe  you'd  rather  not  tell  me?" 

"You'd  better  know.  I  told  her  that  when  it 
came  to  doing  the  nasty  stuff  I  had  seen  pupils 
from  the  dramatic  schools  that  looked  like  head- 
liners  compared  with  her." 

Baron  stiffened.  "Goodness!  You  couldn't 
have  said  that!" 

"Yes,  I  did.  And  I  didn't  have  to  wait  to  hear 
from  any  prompter,  either.  And  she — ^you  know 
she  won't  take  anything.     The  way  she  looked! 

103 


Bonnie  May- 
She  said  she  was  glad  to  say  she  didn't  have  any 
idea  what  I  was  talking  about.  Just  a  stall,  you 
know.  Oh,  these  good  people!  She  called  Flora 
and  said  I  was  to  be  taken  into  a  corner,  and  that 
I  was  to  sit  there  until  we  went  home.  And  Flora 
led  me  into  a  comer  and  the  others  looked  back 
as  if  they  were  afraid  of  me.  They  all  sang  after 
a  while — a  kind  of  ensemble  affair.  Flora  held  the 
music  over  and  invited  me  to  sing.  I  told  her 
musical  turns  were  not  in  my  line.  She  just  kept 
on  holding  the  music  for  me — honestly,  she's  the 
dearest  thing ! — and  singing  herself.  It  was  a  crime, 
the  noise  she  made.  Isn't  it  awful  when  people 
try  to  sing  and  can't  ?  As  if  they  had  to.  Why  do 
they  do  it?  I  felt  like  screaming  to  her  to  stop. 
But  she  looked  as  if  she  might  be  dreaming,  and 
I  thought  if  anybody  could  dream  in  that  terrible 
place  it  would  be  a  crime  to  wake  them,  even  if 
they  did  make  a  noise.  They  had  an  intermission, 
and  then  a  man  down  in  front  dehvered  a  mono- 
logue. .  .  .  Oh,  me!  Talk  about  the  moving- 
picture  shows !    Why,  they're  artistic.  ..." 

What,  Baron  wondered,  was  one  to  say  to  a 
child  who  talked  in  such  a  fashion? 

Nothing — nothing  at  all.  He  groaned.  Then, 
to  his  great  relief,  Flora  appeared. 

"Dinner  is  ready,"  she  said,  standing  in  the 
doorway.  There  was  a  flush  on  her  cheeks  and  an 
odd  smile  on  her  lips. 

Baron  took  Bonnie  May  by  the  hand — ^he  could 
104 


A  Disappointing  Performance 

not  quite  understand  the  impulse  which  prompted 
him  to  do  so — and  led  her  into  the  dining-room. 

He  saw  that  she  bore  her  face  aloft,  with  a  pain- 
ful effort  at  unconcern.  He  was  glad  that  she  was 
given  a  place  next  to  him,  with  the  elder  Baron  on 
her  right,  and  Flora  across  the  table  from  her. 

He  was  dismayed  to  note  that  his  mother  was 
quite  beside  herself.  He  had  expected  a  certain 
amount  of  irritation,  of  chagrin,  but  not  this  omi- 
nous, pallid  silence.  She  avoided  her  son's  eyes,  and 
this  meant,  of  course,  that  her  wTath  would  sooner 
or  later  be  \isited  upon  his  head. 

He  sighed  with  discouragement.  He  realized 
sadly  that  his  mother's  heaviest  crosses  had  always 
come  to  her  from  such  trivial  causes!  She  was 
oddly  childish — ^just  as  Bonnie  May  was  strangely 
unchildUke.  StiU,  she  had  all  the  traditions  of 
propriety,  of  a  rule-made  demeanor,  behind  her. 
Strange  that  she  could  not  have  risen  to  the  dif- 
ficulty that  had  confronted  her,  and  emerged  from 
a  petty  predicament  without  so  much  of  loss ! 

The  meal  progressed  in  a  constrained  silence. 
Bonnie  May  concerned  herself  with  her  napkin; 
she  admired  the  design  on  the  china;  she  appeared 
to  appraise  the  dishes  with  the  care  of  an  epicure. 
And  at  last,  xmfortunately,  she  spoke. 

"Don't  you  think,  Mr.  Baron" — to  the  master 
of  the  house — "that  it  is  a  pretty  custom  to  con- 
verse while  at  table?'* 

Mr.  Baron  coughed.  He  was  keenly  aware  that 
105 


Bonnie  May 

something  had  gone  wrong;  he  was  shrewd  enough 
to  surmise  that  Bonnie  May  had  offended.  But 
he  was  in  the  position  of  the  passenger  below  decks 
who  senses  an  abnormal  atmosphere  but  who  is 
unadvised  as  to  the  nature  of  the  storm. 

"I'm  afraid  I'm  not  a  very  reliable  hand  at 
small  talk,"  he  said  guardedly.  "I  think  my  idea 
is  that  you  ought  to  talk  when  you  have  something 
to  say." 

"Very  good!"  agreed  Bonnie  May,  nodding 
brightly.  She  patted  her  lips  daintily  with  the  cor- 
ner of  her  napkin.  "Only  it  seems  like  chickens 
eating  when  you  don't  talk.  The  noises  make  you 
nervous.  I  should  think  anything  would  get  by, 
even  if  you  talked  about  the  weather.  Otherwise 
it  seems  just  like  machinery  at  work.  Rather 
messy  machinery,  too." 

Baron  seized  an  oar.  "Perhaps  when  people  are 
thoughtful,  or  possibly  troubled,  it  is  a  mark  of 
good  taste  not  to  try  to  draw  them  into  a  conversa- 
tion." He  said  this  airily,  as  if  it  could  not  possibly 
apply  to  the  present  occasion. 

"A  very  good  idea!"  admitted  Bonnie  May, 
quite  obviously  playing  the  part  of  one  who  makes 
of  conversation  a  fine  art.  "But  isn't  it  also  true 
that  people  who  are  troubled  ought  to  hide  it,  for 
the  sake  of  others,  and  not  be  a  sort  of — oh,  a  wet 
blanket?'* 

The  elder  Baron's  eyes  twinkled  in  a  small,  hid- 
den way,  and  Flora  tried  to  smile.     There  was 

io6 


A  Disappointing  Performance 

something  quite  hopefully  audacious  in  the  child's 
behavior. 

But  Mrs.  Baron  stiffened  and  stared.  "Good 
gracious!"  she  exclaimed.  After  which  she  stirred 
her  coffee  with  so  much  vigor  that  a  Uttle  of  it  ran 
over  into  the  saucer,  and  even  the  spotless  table- 
cloth was  menaced. 

Baron  undertook  a  somewhat  sterner  strategy. 
He  felt  that  he  really  must  not  permit  the  guest  to 
add  to  her  offenses  against  his  mother. 

"It  might  be  sensible  not  to  talk  too  much  until 
a  closer  acquaintance  is  formed,"  he  suggested  with 
something  of  finality  in  his  tone. 

But  Bonnie  May  was  not  to  be  checked.  "A 
very  good  thought,  too,"  she  admitted,  "but  you 
can't  get  better  acquainted  without  exchanging 
ideas — and  of  course  talking  is  the  only  way." 

Baron  leaned  back  in  his  chair  with  a  movement 
resembling  a  collapse.  Hadn't  Thomburg  said 
something  about  a  white  elephant? 

"Wouldn't  it  be  fine  if  everybody  wore  a  badge, 
or  something,  so  that  you  would  know  just  how 
they  wanted  to  be  taken?"  A  meticulous  enthu- 
siasm was  becoming  apparent.  Mrs.  Baron  was 
sitting  very  erect — a.  sophisticated,  scornful  au- 
dience, as  she  seemed  to  Bonnie  May. 

"Absurd!"  was  Baron's  comment. 

"Well,  I  don't  know.  You  pretty  near  know 
without  any  badges.  You  can  tell  the — the  mixers, 
and  the  highbrows.    I  mean  when  they  are  the  real 

107 


Bonnie  May 

thing — ^people  worth  while.  I  would  know  you  for 
a  mixer  easy  enough.  I  don't  mean  careless,  you 
Imow;  but  willing  to  loosen  up  a  little  if  people 
went  at  you  in  the  right  way.  And  Flora  would 
be  a  mixer,  too — a,  nice,  friendly  mixer,  as  long  as 
people  behaved."  Here  she  turned  with  a  heroic, 
friendy  appeal  to  Mrs.  Baron.  "And  Mrs.  Baron 
would  be  one  of  the  fine,  sure-enough  highbrows." 

"I  think,"  began  Mrs.  Baron,  suddenly  pos- 
sessed of  an  ominous  calm;  but  the  guest  made  an 
earnest  plea. 

"Oh,  please  let  me  finish !"  she  begged. 

"Very  well,"  said  Mrs.  Baron,  "you  may — 
finish." 

"You  know  I  imderstand  about  your  part  in 
that  entertainment  this  morning.  You  don't  be- 
long in  that  crowd.  It's  like  the  queen  who  kissed 
the  soldier.  She  was  high  enough  up  to  do  it  and 
get  away  with  it."  She  placed  her  elbows  on  the 
table  and  beamed  upon  Mrs.  Baron  with  a  look  so 
sweetly  taunting,  and  so  obviously  conciliatory, 
that  the  others  dared  to  hope  the  very  audacity 
of  it  would  succeed.  "Now  don't  deny,"  she  con- 
tinued, shaking  an  accusing  finger  at  Mrs.  Baron 
and  smiling  angeHcaUy,  "that  you're  just  a  nice, 
siure-enough,  first-class  highbrow!" 

It  was  done  with  such  innocent  intention,  and 
with  so  much  skill,  that  aU  the  members  of  Mrs. 
Baron's  family  turned  their  faces  toward  her  smil- 
ingly, appealingly,  inquiringly. 

ic8 


A  Disappointing  Performance 

But  alas!  Mrs.  Baxon  failed  to  rise  to  the  oc- 
casion. She  was  being  ridiculed — ^by  a  child. — 
and  her  children  and  her  husband  were  countenanc- 
ing the  outrage.    Her  composure  vanished  again. 

She  pushed  her  chair  back  from  the  table  angrily. 
Her  napkin  fell  to  the  floor;  she  grasped  the  edge 
of  the  table  with  both  hands  and  stared  at  Bonnie 
May  in  a  towering  rage. 

"You  Httle  wretch ! "  she  cried.  "You  impudent, 
ungrateful  Httle  wret.ch!  You — ^you  brand  from 
the  burning!" 

She  hurried  from  the  room.  In  her  blind  anger 
she  bumped  her  shoulder  against  the  door  as  she 
went  out,  the  Httle  accident  robbing  her  exit  of 
the  last  vestige  of  dignity. 

Bonnie  May  was  horrified,  crushed.  She  sat, 
pale  and  appalled,  her  eyes  j5xed  on  the  doorway 
through  which  Mrs.  Baron  had  vanished. 

Then  she  brought  her  hands  together  sharply 
and  uttered  a  single  word: 

"Hoo-ray!" 

Every  member  of  the  family  was  electrified. 

"Father!"  expostulated  Flora. 

"Victor!"  exclaimed  the  elder  Baron. 

And  Baron,  shaking  his  head  sadly,  murmured: 

" Bonnie  May !    Bonnie  May ! " 


109 


CHAPTER  X 
THE  WHITE  ELEPHANT 

Mrs.  Baron  "took  to  her  room,"  as  the  saying  is. 
For  an  hour  or  more  she  might  have  been,  to  all 
intents  and  purposes,  in  some  far  country. 

She  left  an  awed  silence  behind  her. 

"If  you'U  excuse  me,  I  think  I'U  go  and  talk  to 
Mrs.  Shepard  a  while,"  said  Bonnie  May,  not  with- 
out significance.  The  atmosphere  had  become  too 
rarefied  for  her.  She  was  turning  from  an  inimical 
clan.  She  was  obeying  that  undying  instinct  which 
impelled  the  cavemen  of  old  to  get  their  backs 
toward  a  waU. 

Baron,  Sr.,  prepared  to  go  out.  He  turned  to 
Victor  and  Flora  as  he  took  his  leave,  and  his  whole 
being  twinkled  quietly.  He  seemed  to  be  saying: 
"Don't  ask  me!" 

Flora  stole  up  to  her  mother's  room.  She  tapped 
at  the  door  affectionately — ^if  one  can  tap  at  a  door 
affectionately. 

A  voice  muffled  by  pillows  was  heard.  "Making 
hay,"  it  seemed  to  say.  Flora  frowned  in  perplex- 
ity. Then  her  brow  cleared  and  she  smiled  wist- 
fully.   "Oh !"  she  interpreted,  "  *Go  away.'  " 

She  went  to  Victor  again. 
no 


The  White  Elephant 

"I  suppose  she'll  have  to  go,"  she  said,  almost 
in  a  whisper. 

"Oh,  yes,  certainly;  yes,  she'll  have  to  go," 
agreed  Victor  firmly. 

"And  yet  I  can't  say  it's  her  fault." 

"You  might  say  it's  her  misfortune." 

"Yes.  .  .  .    Isn't  she— wonderful ! " 

"Oh,  well,  if  two  people  simply  can't  understand 
each  other,  that's  all  there  is  to  it." 

"But  she  understands.  She  just  talks  too  much. 
She  won't  realize  that  she's  only  a  child." 

"Oh,  what's  the  use!"  exclaimed  Baron.  He 
thrust  his  hands  into  his  pockets  and  strolled  through 
the  house,  up  into  the  Hbrary. 

He  took  down  a  copy  of  "Diana  of  the  Cross- 
ways,"  and  opened  it  at  random,  staring  darkly 
at  words  which  the  late  Mr.  Meredith  never  wrote: 

"Why  couldn't  she  have  made  allowances?  Why 
couldn't  she  have  overlooked  things  which  plainly 
weren't  meant  to  be  the  least  offensive?'* 

Obscurities,  perhaps,  but  what  does  one  expect 
of  Meredith  ? 

He  meditated  long  and  dejectedly.  And  then  he 
heard  his  mother  in  the  sitting-room. 

He  put  aside  his  book  and  assimied  a  light,  un- 
troubled air.  "Better  have  it  out  now,"  he  re- 
flected, as  he  opened  the  door  and  went  into  the 
sitting-room. 

"Where  is  the  Queen  of  Sheba?"  asked  Mrs. 
Baron. 

Ill 


Bonnie  May 

Baron  dropped  into  a  chair.  "  You  know  I'm 
awfully  sorry,  mother,"  he  said.  There  was  a 
singular  lack  of  real  repentance  in  his  tone. 

"I  don't  doubt  that.  Still,  you  might  have 
taken  me  into  your  confidence  before  you  brought 
that  little  Hmb  of  Satan  into  the  house.  I  never 
heard  of  such  a  child.    Never." 

"But  you  know  what  the  circumstances 
were " 

"Don't  go  into  that  again.  I  know  that  you 
brought  her  here,  and  that  there  wasn't  any  excuse 
for  such  a  foohsh  action." 

"But,  mother!"  Baron's  face  was  heavy  with 
perplexity.  "She's  such  a  Httle  thing!  She  hasn't 
got  anybody  to  turn  to  when  she's  in  trouble.  My 
goodness!  I  think  she's  done  nobly — ^not  whim- 
pering once  since  she  came  into  the  house.  She's 
probably — rattled !  How  would  you  or  I  behave  if 
we  were  in  her  shoes?" 

Mrs.  Baron's  eyebrows  steadily  mounted.  "The 
point  is,  we're  not  in  the  sHghtest  degree  responsible 
for  her.  I  want  to  know  how  we're  going  to  get 
rid  of  her." 

Baron  had  taken  a  chair  directly  in  front  of  his 
mother.  Now  he  arose  and  paced  the  floor.  When 
he  spoke  his  tone  was  crisp  almost  to  sharpness. 

"It  isn't  any  more  difficult  now  than  it  was  yes- 
terday," he  said.  "I  can  turn  her  over  to  the 
police." 

Something  in  his   manner  startled  his  mother. 

112 


The  White  Elephant 

She  flushed  quickly.  "That's  just  like  you,"  she 
protested.  "What  do  you  suppose  people  would 
say  if  we  turned  a  motherless  child  over  to  the 
poUce?  You  ought  to  see  that  you've  forced  a 
responsibihty  on  me !" 

"Well,  I  should  think  it  would  be  a  question  of 
what  your  own  conscience  says.  As  for  'people,' 
I  don't  see  why  anybody  need  know  anything 
about  it." 

"And  the  newspapers  and  everything?  Of  course 
they  would — everything." 

"I  could  ask  Thomburg  to  take  her.  He  offered 
to  help.  I  have  an  idea  he'd  be  only  too  glad  to 
have  her." 

"The  theatre  man — ^yes.  And  he'd  dress  her  up 
in  a  fancy-ball  costmne,  and  encourage  her  in  her 
brazen  ways,  and  she'd  be  utterly  shameless  by 
the  time  she  got  to  be  a  young  woman." 

Baron  sat  down  again  with  decision.  "Mother, 
don't!"  he  exclaimed.  "Thomburg  isn't  that 
kind  at  all.  He'd — ^he'd  probably  try  to  get  at  her 
point  of  view  now  and  then,  and  he  might  allow 
her  to  have  certain  Hberties.  I  think  he's  broad 
enough  to  want  her  to  be  good  without  insisting 
upon  her  being  miserable ! " 

"Victor  Baron!"  warned  his  mother,  and  then 
she  added  with  decision:  "Then  you'd  better  get 
him  to  take  her — and  the  sooner  the  better." 

"That  will  be  all  right.  To-morrow.  I'll  call 
on  him  at  his  office  to-morrow.     I've  never  met 

113 


Bonnie  May 

his  family.    I'd  consider  it  an  intrusion  to  go  to 
his  house  to-day,  whether  he  did  or  not." 

This,  of  course,  was  spoken  disagreeably,  and 
Mrs.  Baron  resented  it.  "You're  very  obhging, 
I'm  sure,"  she  said.  "But  after  what  I've  gone 
through  I've  no  doubt  I  can  wait  until  to-morrow." 

"No,  it*s  not  that  she  has  disappointed  me," 
responded  Baron  to  a  question  by  Thomburg  the 
next  morning. 

They  were  sitting  in  the  manager's  office,  and 
Baron  had  realized  too  late  that  he  should  have 
waited  until  after  luncheon,  or  for  some  other  more 
auspicious  occasion,  to  have  a  confidential  talk 
with  Thomburg.  There  were  frequent  interrup- 
tions, and  the  manager  had  his  mind  upon  the  com- 
plicated business  of  amusement  purveying,  rather 
than  upon  the  welfare  of  a  waif  who,  as  he  con- 
ceived it,  had  become  the  hobby  of  a  somewhat 
eccentric  young  man.  A  special  rehearsal  was  in 
progress  in  the  theatre,  and  the  voice  of  the  stage- 
manager,  lifted  in  anger,  occasionally  reached 
them.  It  was  a  warm  morning,  and  many  doors 
were  open. 

"The  fact  is,"  Baron  resumed,  "I  didn't  fore- 
see the — the  compHcations.  My  mother  has  taken 
them  into  account,  and  it's  her  decision,  rather 
than  mine,  that  we  ought  to  give  her  up." 

Thomburg  turned  hurriedly  to  examine,  and 
then  to  approve,  the  underline  for  a  gorgeous  poster 

114 


The  White  Elephant 

of  highly  impressionistic  design,  which  one  of  his 
employees  had  placed  before  him.  When  he  turned 
to  Baron  again  he  presented  the  appearance  of  one 
who  has  lost  the  thread  of  a  conversation. 

"We  were  saying — oh,  yes.  You've  got  enough 
of — of  what's  her  name.  Well,  what's  your  im- 
pression of  her,  now  that  you've  had  time  to  look 
her  over?" 

"I  haven't  changed  my  mind  at  all.    I  like  her.'* 

"The  family  made  a  row?" 

Baron  answered  evasively.  "It  isn't  quite  a 
question  of  liking.  It's  something  like  trying  to 
keep  a  canary  in  a  suitcase,  or  putting  a  lamb  or 
a  kitten  into  harness." 

Thornburg  smUed.  "Tell  me  just  how  she  fails 
to  square  with  the — the  domestic  virtues,"  he  said. 

"Her  way  of  saying  things — ^her  views — she  is 
so  wholly  unconventional,"  said  Baron  haltingly. 
"She  doesn't  stand  in  awe  of  her  superiors.  She 
expresses  her  ideas  with — ^weU,  with  perfect  liberty. 
You  know  children  aren't  supposed  to  be  like  that. 
At  least  my  mother  takes  that  view  of  the  case." 

He  so  plainly  had  little  or  no  sympathy  with  the 
argument  he  made  that  Thornburg  looked  at  him 
keenly. 

"I  see.  She  scratches  the  paint  off!"  interpreted 
the  manager.    He  smiled  upon  Baron  exultingly. 

"You  might  put  it  so,"  agreed  Baron,  to  whom 
the  words  were  highly  offensive.  What  right  had 
Thornburg  to  speak  contemptuously  of  the  things 

"5 


Bonnie  May 

which  his  family — and  their  kind — ^represented? 
He  proceeded  coldly.  "I  understood  that  you 
felt  some  measure  of  responsibiHty.  I  thought 
perhaps  you  might  be  willing  to  take  her,  in  case 
we  decided  it  would  be  difficult  for  us  to  keep 
her." 

The  manager  pretended  not  to  note  the  aloof- 
ness of  the  otlier's  tone.  "Now,  if  it  were  a  matter 
of  expense — "  he  began. 

"It  isn't.  She  doesn't  seem  at  home  with  us.  I 
think  that  states  the  whole  case." 

"How  could  she  feel  at  home  in  the  short  time 
she's  been  with  you?  " 

"Then  I  might  put  it  this  way:  She  doesn't 
seem  congenial." 

"Of  course  that's  different.  That  seems  to  leave 
me  out,  as  near  as  I  can  see." 

"You  mean,"  said  Baron,  "you  wouldn't  care 
to  assume  the  responsibiHty  for  her?" 

"Why  should  I?"  demanded  Thomburg  bluntly. 
He  glared  at  Baron  resentfully. 

"You're  quite  right,  certainly.  I  seem  to  have 
had  the  impression " 

"I  have  an  idea  she's  doing  better  with  you 
than  she  would  anywhere  else,  anyway,"  continued 
Thornburg  in  milder  tones.  "Why  not  give  her 
her  place  and  make  her  stay  in  it?  I  can't  under- 
stand a  family  of  grown  people  throwing  up  their 
hands  to  a  baby!" 

"I  merely  wanted  to  get  your  views,"  said  Baron 
ii6 


The  White  Elephant 

stiffly  as  he  rose  to  go.  "I  didn't  care  to  send  for 
the  poHce  until " 

Thomburg  got  up,  too.  "Don't  understand  that 
I  wash  my  hands  of  her,"  he  hastened  to  say.  "It 
might  not  hurt  me  any  for  the  pubHc  to  know  that 
I  didn't  do  anything,  under  the  drcimistances, 
but  it  would  certainly  be  a  boost  for  me  to  have 
it  known  that  I  went  out  of  my  way  to  do  a  good 
deed.    Of  course  if  you  won't  keep  her " 

Baron  turned  and  looked  at  him  and  waited. 

"Look  here,  Baron,  I'm  going  to  be  frank  with 
you.  When  you  took  her  home,  I  was  sore  at  you. 
Especially  after  you  told  me  something  about  her. 
I  like  them — children,  I  mean.  You  had  taken 
her  off  my  premises.  I  thought  about  the  big  house 
I've  got,  and  not  a  child  in  it,  and  never  to  be,  and 
I  figured  I  might  as  well  have  taken  her  myself. 
But  there's  difficulties."  His  expression  became 
troubled.  "Once  before  I  tried  to  take  a  child  into 
the  house  and  Mrs.  Thomburg  objected.  It  was 
my  own  child,  too."  He  paused.  "You  know  I've 
been  married  twice." 

Baron's  thoughts  went  back  a  few  years  to  the 
somewhat  unpleasant  story  of  Thomburg's  divorce 
from  an  actress  with  whom  he  had  spent  only  a 
Uttle  more  than  one  troubled  year.  The  facts  had 
been  pubHc  property.    He  made  no  reply. 

Thomburg  continued:  "I'm  in  doubt  as  to  how 
my  wife  would  look  at  it  if  I  suggested  that  I'd 
like  to  bring  this  waif  home.    Of  course,  it's  just 

117 


Bonnie  May- 
possible  she  might  not  want  to  take  a  child  of  mine, 
and  still  be  willing  to  take  in  some  outsider.    You 
know  what  strange  creatures  women  are." 

Baron  waited.  Was  Thomburg  being  quite  frank 
with  him — ^at  last? 

"You  see  the  difficulty.  The — ^the  wife  is  likely 
to  suspect  that  Bonnie  May  is  the  same  Httle  girl 
I  wanted  to  bring  home  before — that  she's  mine. 
She  never  saw  the  Httle  daughter.  I'd  have  to  be 
careful  not  to  make  her  suspicious." 

"But  the  circumstances  ...  I  don't  see  how 
she  could  suspect  anything,"  argued  Baron. 

"Not  if  I  don't  seem  too  much  interested.  That's 
the  point.  I'U  tell  you,  Baron — ^you  come  out  and 
see  us.  Me  and  my  wife.  Come  to-night.  State 
the  case  to  us  together.  Tell  the  plain  truth.  Ex- 
plain how  you  got  hold  of  Bonnie  May,  and  tell 
my  wife  your  people  have  changed  their  minds. 
That  ought  to  make  the  thing  clear  enough." 

Baron,  homeward  bound,  marvelled  at  Thom- 
burg. It  seemed  strange  that  a  crude,  strong  man 
should  feel  obUged  to  shape  his  deeds  to  please 
an  ungracious,  suspicious  wife.  He  felt  sorry  for 
him,  too.  He  seemed  to  be  one  of  those  blunderers 
whose  dealings  with  women  are  always  bewildering, 
haphazard  experiments. 

He  had  promised  to  call  that  evening — ^to  lend 
his  aid  to  the  manager.  It  was  the  sensible  thing 
to  do,  of  course.  They  had  to  get  rid  of  Bonnie 
May.  Nothing  was  to  be  gained  by  debating  that 
point  any  further.    And  yet.  .  .  . 

ii8 


The  White  Elephant 

When  he  reached  home  he  was  hoping  that  his 
mother  might,  on  some  ground  or  other,  have 
changed  her  mind. 

He  speedily  learned  that  she  had  done  nothing 
of  the  kind. 

Indeed,  matters  were  a  little  more  at  cross-pur- 
poses than  they  had  been  the  night  before.  Mrs. 
Baron  had  tried  again  to  make  a  dress  for  the 
fastidious  guest,  accepting  certain  of  Flora's  sug- 
gestions, and  the  result  of  the  experiment  hadn't 
been  at  all  gratifying. 

Baron  received  the  first  report  of  the  matter 
from  Bonnie  May,  who  was  waiting  for  him  at  the 
foot  of  the  stairs  when  he  entered  the  house. 

"You  will  please  make  no  unkind  remarks  about 
my  new  dress,"  she  began,  assuming  the  attitude 
of  a  fencer,  and  slowly  turning  around. 

The  subject — and  the  child's  frivolous  manner — 
irritated  Baron.  "Really,  I  think  it's  very  pretty 
and  suitable,"  he  said. 

"Not  at  all.  It's  neither  pretty  nor  suitable — 
though  both  words  mean  about  the  same  thing, 
when  it  comes  to  a  dress.  But  it's  a  great  improve- 
ment on  that  first  thing.  I  told  your  mother  that. 
I  told  her  I'd  wear  it  until  I  got  something  better." 

Baron  sighed.    "What  did  she  say  to  that?" 

"She  was  offended,  of  course.  But  what  was  I 
to  do?    I  can't  see  that  I'm  to  blame." 

"But  can't  you  see  that  mother  is  doing  the  best 
she  can  for  you,  and  that  you  ought  to  be  grate- 
ful?" 

119 


Bonnie  May 

"I  see  what  you  mean.  But  I  believe  in  having 
an  understanding  from  the  beginning.  She's  got 
her  ideas,  and  I've  got  mine.  She  believes  you're 
Satan's  if  you  look  pretty — or  something  Hke  that. 
And  I  believe  you  ought  to  be  Satan's  if  you  don't.'' 

"But  you  do  look — ^pretty."  Baron  spoke  the 
last  word  ungraciously.  He  was  trying  to  believe 
he  would  not  care  much  longer  what  turn  affairs 
took — that  he  would  have  forgotten  the  whole 
thing  in  another  day  or  two. 

He  found  his  mother  up-stairs. 

"Well — any  change  for  the  better?"  he  asked. 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  know.  That  depends  entirely 
upon  what  arrangements  you  have  made." 

"I  think  Thomburg  will  take  her.  He's  got  to 
do  a  Httle  planning." 

"People  sometimes  do  before  they  bring  strange 
children  into  their  houses,"  Mrs.  Baron  retorted. 

Baron  realized  that  his  mother  was  becoming 
more  successful  with  her  sarcasm.  He  passed  into 
the  library.  A  mischievous  impulse  seized  him — the 
fruit  of  that  last  fling  of  his  mother's.  He  called 
back  over  his  shoulder.  "If  the  perverse  little 
thing  is  quite  unendurable,  you  might  lock  her  up 
in  the  attic  and  feed  her  on  bread  and  water  until 
she  leaves." 

Mrs.  Baron  stared  after  him,  dumfounded. 
"I'll  do  nothing  of  the  sort!"  she  exclaimed.  "She 
shall  not  be  treated  unkindly,  as  you  ought  to 
know.    We  owe  that  much  to  ourselves." 

1 20 


CHAPTER  XI 

HOW  A  CONVEYANCE  CAME  FOR  BONNIE  MAY— 
AND  HOW  IT  WENT  AWAY 

True  to  his  promise,  Baron  set  aside  that  evening 
to  call  on  the  Thomburgs. 

As  he  emerged  from  the  vestibule  and  stood  for 
a  moment  on  the  top  step  he  noted  that  the  familiar 
conflict  between  the  departing  daylight  and  the  long 
files  of  street-lamps  up  and  down  the  avenue  was 
being  waged.  In  the  country,  no  doubt,  this  hour 
would  be  regarded  as  a  part  of  the  day;  but  in  the 
city  it  was  being  drawn  ruthlessly  into  the  maw  of 
night.    There  was  never  any  twiHght  on  the  avenue. 

Already  countless  thousands  of  people  had  had 
dinner,  and  were  thronging  the  avenue  in  that 
restless  march  which  is  called  the  pursuit  of  plea- 
sure. 

He  slipped  into  the  hmnan  current  and  disap- 
peared just  a  moment  too  soon  to  observe  that  an 
automobile  swerved  out  from  its  course  and  drew 
up  in  front  of  the  mansion. 

A  youthful-looking  old  lady  with  snowy  hair 
and  with  small,  neatly  gloved  hands,  pushed  open 
the  door  and  emerged.  With  the  manner  of  one 
who  repeats  si  request  she  paused  and  turned. 

121 


Bonnie  May 

"Do  come  in,  Colonel,"  she  called  into  the 
shadowy  recesses  of  the  car. 

A  gray,  imposing-appearing  man  with  a  good 
deal  of  vitality  still  showing  in  his  eyes  and  com- 
plexion smiled  back  at  her  inscrutably.  "Go  on," 
he  said,  tucking  his  cigar  beneath  the  grizzled 
stubble  on  his  upper  Up,  and  bringing  his  hand 
down  with  a  large  gesture  of  leisurely  contentment. 
"You'll  be  all  right.    I  don't  mind  waiting." 

And  Mrs.  Harrod  proceeded  alone  to  make  her 
call. 

By  the  most  casual  chance  Mrs.  Baron  was 
standing  at  her  sitting-room  window  when  the  car 
stopped  before  the  house,  and  when  she  perceived 
that  it  was  Mrs.  Harrod — ^Amelia  Harrod,  as  she 
thought  of  her — ^who  was  crossing  the  sidewalk, 
she  underwent  a  very  remarkable  transformation. 

So  complete  a  transformation,  indeed,  that  Bon- 
nie May,  who  was  somewhat  covertly  observing 
her,  sprang  softly  to  her  feet  and  became  all  atten- 
tion. 

Mrs.  Baron's  face  flushed — the  child  could  see 
the  heightened  color  in  one  cheek — and  her  whole 
attitude  expressed  an  unwonted  eagerness,  a  child- 
ish dehght. 

The  truth  was  that  Mrs.  Harrod  was  one  of  the 
old  friends  who  had  seemed  to  Mrs.  Baron  to  be 
of  the  deserters — one  whose  revised  visiting  list 
did  not  include  the  Barons.  And  they  had  been 
girls    together,    and    intimates    throughout    their 

122 


How  a  Conveyance  Came 

married  lives — until  the  neighborhood  had  moved 
away,  so  to  speak,  and  the  Barons  had  remained. 

It  is  true  that,  despite  Mrs.  Baron's  fancies, 
Mrs.  Harrod  had  remained  a  fond  and  loyal  friend, 
though  she  had  reached  an  age  when  social  obhga- 
tions,  in  their  more  trivial  forms,  were  not  as  easily 
met  as  they  had  been  in  earHer  years.  And  it  may 
also  be  true  that  something  of  constraint  had  arisen 
between  the  two  during  the  past  year  or  so,  owing 
to  Mrs.  Baron's  behef  that  she  was  being  studiously 
neglected,  and  to  Mrs.  Harrod's  fear  that  her  old 
friend  was  growing  old  ungracefully  and  unhappily. 

Then,  too,  the  Harrods  had  money.  Colonel 
Harrod  had  never  permitted  his  family's  social 
standing  to  interfere  with  his  money-making.  On 
the  contrary.  The  Barons  were  unable  to  say  of 
the  Harrods:  "Oh,  yes,  they  have  money ^^  as 
they  said  of  a  good  many  other  famihes.  For  the 
Harrods  had  everything  else,  too. 

"Oh,  it's  Amelia!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Baron,  with- 
drawing her  eyes  from  the  street.  She  gave  herself 
a  quick,  critical  survey,  and  put  her  hands  to  her 
hair,  and  hurried  toward  her  room  in  a  state  of  de- 
hghted  agitation. 

She  had  not  given  a  thought  to  Bonnie  May. 
She  did  not  know  that  the  child  sHpped  eagerly 
from  the  room  and  hurried  down  the  stairs. 

Bonnie  May  was,  indeed,  greatly  in  need  of  a 
diversion  of  some  sort.  Not  a  word  had  been  said 
to  her  touching  the  clash  that  had  occurred  at  the 

123 


Bonnie  May 

table  during  the  Sunday  dinner.  She  did  not  know 
that  the  machinery  necessary  to  her  remoral  from 
the  mansion  had  been  set  in  motion;  but  she  had 
a  vague  sense  of  a  sort  of  rising  inflection  in  the  at- 
mosphere, as  if  necessary  adjustments  were  in  the 
making.  Perhaps  her  state  of  mind  was  a  good  deal 
like  that  of  a  sailor  who  voyages  in  waters  which 
are  known  to  be  mined. 

However,  she  liked  to  go  to  the  door  to  admit 
visitors,  in  any  case.  There  may  have  been,  latent 
in  her  nature,  a  stong  housekeeping  instinct.  Or, 
perhaps,  there  seemed  a  certain  form  of  drama  in 
opening  the  door  to  persons  unknown — in  meeting, 
in  this  manner,  persons  who  were  for  the  time 
being  her  "opposites."  She  assured  herseK  that 
she  was  saving  Mrs.  Shepard  from  the  trouble  of 
responding  from  the  kitchen;  though  she  realized 
clearly  enough  that  she  was  actuated  partly  by  a 
love  of  excitement,  of  encounters  with  various 
types  of  human  beings. 

On  the  present  occasion  she  had  opened  the  door 
and  stepped  aside,  smiling,  before  Mrs.  Harrod  had 
had  time  to  touch  the  bell. 

"Come  in,"  she  said.  And  when  the  visitor  had 
entered  she  closed  the  door  softly.  "Will  you  wait 
imtil  I  make  a  hght?"  she  asked.  "I'm  afraid 
we've  all  forgotten  about  the  light."  The  lower 
rooms  had  become  quite  gloomy. 

She  had  cHmbed  upon  a  chair  in  the  drawing- 
room,  and  touched  a  match  to  the  gas-burner  before 

124 


How  a  Conveyance  Came 

she  could  be  questioned  or  assisted,  and  for  the 
moment  the  caller  was  only  thinking  how  peculiar 
it  was  that  the  Barons  went  on  relying  upon  gas, 
when  electricity  was  so  much  more  convenient. 

"Please  have  a  seat,"  Bonnie  May  added,  "while 
I  call  Mrs.  Baron."  She  turned  toward  the  hall. 
"Shall  I  say  who  it  is?"  she  asked. 

Mrs.  Harrod  had  not  taken  a  seat.  When  the 
light  filled  the  room  child  and  woman  confronted 
each  other,  the  child  deferential,  the  woman  smil- 
ing with  an  odd  sort  of  tenderness. 

"Who  are  you?"  asked  the  visitor.  Her  eyes 
were  beaming;  the  curve  of  her  lips  was  like  a 
declaration  of  love. 

"I'm  Bonnie  May."  The  child  advanced  and 
held  out  her  hand. 

Mrs.  Harrod  pondered.  "You're  not  a — ^rela- 
tive?" 

"Oh,  no.  A — ^guest,  I  think.  Nothing  more 
than  that." 

Mrs.  Harrod  drew  a  chair  toward  her  without 
removing  her  eyes  from  the  child's  face.  "Do 
sit  down  a  minute  and  talk  to  me,"  she  said.  "We 
can  let  Mrs.  Baron  know  afterward.  A  guest? 
But  you  don't  visit  here  often?" 

"This  is  my  first  visit.  You  see,  I  have  so  little 
time  for  visiting.  I  happen  not  to  have  any — ^any 
other  engagement  just  now.  I  was  very  glad  to 
come  here  for — ^for  a  while." 

"You  haven't  known  the  Barons  long,  then?" 

125 


Bonnie  May 

"In  a  way,  no.  But  you  know  you  feel  you've 
always  known  really  lovely  people.  Don't  you 
feel  that  way?"  She  inclined  her  head  a  little; 
her  lips  were  sHghtly  parted;  her  color  arose.  She 
was  trying  very  earnestly  to  meet  this  impressive 
person  upon  an  equal  footing. 

"I  think  you're  quite  right.  And — ^how  did  you 
meet  them?  I  hope  you  don't  mind  my  asking 
questions?" 

"Not  in  the  least.  I  met  Mr.  Victor  at  a — a. 
kind  of  reception  he  was  attending.  He  was  lovely 
to  me.    He  asked  me  to  meet  his  mother." 

"How  simple!    And  so  you  called?" 

"Yes.  That  is,  Mr.  Victor  came  and — and 
brought  me.  It  was  much  pleasanter,  his  bringing 
me. 

She  had  wriggled  up  into  a  chair  and  was  keeping 
clear,  earnest  eyes  upon  the  visitor.  She  was  re- 
calling Mrs.  Baron's  agitation,  and  she  was  draw- 
ing conclusions  which  were  very  far  from  being 
wholly  wrong. 

"I  think  Victor's  a  charming  young  gentleman," 
declared  Mrs.  Harrod.  "He's  always  doing  some- 
thing— ^nice." 

"Yes,"  responded  Bonnie  May.  She  had  ob- 
served that  the  visitor  paused  before  she  said 
"nice."  Her  eyes  were  alertly  studying  Mrs. 
Harrod's  face. 

"And  your  name  is  Bonnie  May.    Is  that  the 

full  name,  or " 

126 


How  a  Conveyance  Came 

"Yes,  that's  the  full  name." 

Mrs.  Harrod  pondered.  "You're  not  of  the 
Prof.  Mays,  are  you?" 

"Why,  I'm  of — of  professional  people.  I'm  not 
sure  I'm  of  the  Mays  you're  thinking  about."  She 
edged  herself  from  her  chair  uneasily.  "I  hope  I 
haven't  forgotten  myself,"  she  added.  "I'm  sure 
I  should  have  let  Mrs.  Baron  know  you  are  here. 
I  think  you  didn't  say  what  the  name  is?" 

"I'm  Mrs.  Harrod.  I  hope  you'll  remember.  I 
would  be  glad  if  you'd  be  a  friend  of  mine,  too." 

The  child's  dilemma,  whatever  it  had  been,  was 
past.  She  smiled  almost  radiantly.  "I'm  very 
glad  to  have  met  you,  Mrs.  Harrod,"  she  said. 
She  advanced  and  extended  her  hand  again.  "I 
truly  hope  I'll  have  the  pleasure  of  meeting  you 
again." 

Then  she  was  off  up  the  stairs,  walking  sedately. 
It  had  meant  much  to  her  that  this  nice  woman, 
who  was  clearly  not  of  the  profession,  had  talked 
to  her  without  patronizing  her,  without  "talking 
down"  to  her. 

A  strange  timidity  overwhelmed  her  when  she 
appeared  at  Mrs.  Baron's  door.  "It's  Mrs.  Har- 
rod," she  said,  and  there  was  a  slight  catch  in  her 
voice.  "I  mean,  Mrs.  Harrod  has  called.  I  let 
her  in." 

Mrs.  Baron,  standing  in  her  doorway,  was  fixing 
an  old-fashioned  brooch  in  place.  She  flushed  and 
there  was  swift  mistrust  in  her  eyes.    "Oh!"  she 

127 


Bonnie  May 

cried  weakly.  The  sound  was  almost  like  a  moan. 
"I  thought  Mrs.  Shepard " 

"I  didn't  tell  her  I  was— I  didn't  tell  her  who  I 
was.  I  thought  you  would  rather  I  didn't.  I  was 
just  nice  to  her,  and  she  was  nice  to  me." 

She  hurried  away,  then,  because  she  wanted  to 
be  by  herself.  For  some  reason  which  she  could 
not  understand  tears  were  beginning  to  start  from 
her  eyes.  Mrs.  Baron  had  not  been  angry,  this 
time.    She  had  seemed  to  be  ashamed ! 

She  did  not  know  that  the  old  gentlewoman 
looked  after  her  with  a  startled,  almost  guilty  ex- 
pression which  gave  place  to  swift  contrition  and 
tenderness. 

Mrs.  Baron  did  not  descend  the  stairs.  She  was 
about  to  do  so  when  Mrs.  Harrod  appeared  in  the 
lower  hall. 

"Don't  come  down!"  called  the  latter.  "I  mean 
to  have  my  visit  with  you  in  your  sitting-room." 
She  was  climbing  the  stairs.  "I  don't  intend  to 
be  treated  like  a  stranger,  even  if  I  haven't  been 
able  to  come  for  such  a  long  time."  Shadows  and 
restraints  seemed  to  be  vanishing  utterly  before 
that  advancing  friendly  presence.  And  at  the  top 
of  the  flight  of  stairs  she  drew  a  deep  breath  and 
exclaimed: 

"Emily  Boone,  who  is  that  child?"  She  took 
both  Mrs.  Baron's  hands  and  kissed  her.  "I  told 
the  colonel  I  simply  wouldn't  go  by  without  stop-j 
ping.     He  had  an  idea  we  ought  to  go  to  see — > 

ia8 


How  a  Conveyance  Came 

what's  the  name  of  the  play?  I  can't  remember. 
It  gave  me  a  chance  to  stop.  I  seem  never  to  have 
the  opportunity  any  more.  But  do  tell  me.  About 
the  child,  I  mean.  Do  you  know,  I've  never  seen 
such  a  perfect  little  human  being  in  my  life !  She's 
so  lovely,  and  so  honest,  and  so  unspoiled.  Who  is 
she?" 

Mrs.  Baron  felt  many  waters  lift  and  pass.  Bon- 
nie May  hadn't  done  anything  scandalous,  evidently. 
And  here  was  her  old  friend  as  expansive,  as  cheer- 
fully outspoken  as  in  the  days  of  long  ago. 

She  found  herself  responding  happily,  lightly. 

"A  little  protegee  of  Victor's,"  she  said.  "You 
know  what  a  discoverer  he  is?"  They  had  entered 
the  sitting-room.  Mrs.  Baron  was  thinking  again 
how  good  it  was  to  have  the  old  bond  restored,  the 
old  friend's  voice  awaking  a  thousand  pleasant 
memories. 

But  as  Mrs.  Harrod  took  a  seat  she  leaned  for- 
ward without  a  pause.  "Now  do  tell  me  about 
that — that  cherub  of  a  child,"  she  said. 

In  the  meantime,  Victor  Baron  was  experiencing 
something  like  a  surprise  to  discover  that  Thorn- 
burg,  the  manager,  seemed  a  new,  a  different,  sort 
of  person,  now  that  he  was  in  his  own  home.  He 
had  quite  the  air  of — ^well,  there  was  only  one  word 
for  it,  Baron  supposed — ^a  gentleman. 

The  Thornburg  home  was  quite  as  nice,  even  in 
the  indefinable  ways  that  count  most,  as  any  home 
Baron  was  acquainted  with.    There  was  an  impres- 

129 


Bonnie  May 

sion  of  elegance — ^but  not  too  much  elegance — in 
the  large  reception-room.  There  was  a  general  im- 
pression of  softly  limited  illumination,  of  fine  yet 
simple  furniture.  The  walls  had  a  kind  of  pleasant 
individuality,  by  reason  of  the  fact  that  they  were 
sparsely — ^yet  attractively — ornamented. 

A  grandfather's  clock  imparted  homeliness  to 
one  end  of  the  room;  there  was  a  restful  suggestion 
in  the  broad  fireplace  in  which  an  enormous  fern 
had  been  installed.  Baron's  glance  also  took  in 
a  grand  piano  of  a  quietly  subdued  finish. 

Mrs.  Thornburg  alone  seemed  in  some  odd  way 
out  of  harmony  with  the  fine,  cordial  picture  in 
which  Baron  found  her.  She  was  a  frail,  wistful 
woman,  and  because  her  body  was  ailing,  her  mind, 
too — as  Baron  speedily  discovered — ^was  not  of  the 
sound,  cheerful  texture  of  her  surroundings. 

"Ah,  Baron!"  exclaimed  Thornburg,  advancing 
to  meet  his  guest  as  the  latter  was  shown  into  the 
room.    "I'm  glad  to  see  you  here." 

As  he  turned  to  his  wife,  to  introduce  the  visitor, 
Baron  was  struck  by  something  cautious  and  alert 
in  his  manner — the  manner  of  a  man  who  must 
be  constantly  prepared  to  make  allowances,  to 
take  soundings.  He  presented  an  altogether  whole- 
some picture  as  he  looked  alternately  at  his  wife 
and  his  guest.  His  abimdant,  stubborn  gray  hair 
was  in  comfortable  disorder,  to  harmonize  with 
the  smoking-jacket  he  wore,  and  Baron  looked  at 
him  more  than  once  with  the  uncomfortable  sense 

130 


How  a  Conveyance  Came 

of  never  having  really  known  him  before.  He 
thought,  too,  how  this  brusque,  ruddy  man  seemed 
in  a  strange  fashion  imprisoned  within  the  radius 
of  an  ailing  wife's  influence. 

"Mr.  Baron  is  the  man  who  carried  that  little 
girl  out  of  the  theatre  the  other  day,"  explained 
Thomburg.  He  turned  again  to  Baron  with  a 
casual  air:  "Do  you  find  that  your  people  still 
want  to  let  her  go?" 

He  was  playing  a  part,  obviously;  the  part  of 
one  who  is  all  but  indijfferent.  Mrs.  Thornburg 
scrutinized  the  visitor's  face  closely. 

"Yes,  I  beheve  they  do,"  repKed  Baron. 

"I've  been  talking  to  Mrs.  Thomburg  about  the 
case.  She  imderstands  that  I  feel  a  sort  of  re- 
sponsibility. I  think  I've  about  persuaded  her  to 
have  a  look  at  the  little  girl." 

Mrs.  Thomburg  seemed  unwilling  to  look  at  her 
husband  while  he  was  speaking.  Baron  thought 
she  must  be  concealing  something.  She  was  gaz- 
ing at  him  with  an  expression  of  reproach,  not 
wholly  free  from  resentment. 

"Hasn't  the  child  any  relatives?"  she  asked. 
She  seemed  to  be  making  an  effort  to  speak 
calmly. 

"I  really  can't  answer  that,"  said  Baron.  "She 
seems  not  to  have.  She  has  told  me  very  little 
about  herself,  yet  I  beheve  she  has  told  me  all  she 
knows.  She  has  spoken  of  a  young  woman — an 
actress — she  has  travelled  with.    There  doesn't  ap- 

131 


Bonnie  May 

pear  to  have  been  any  one  else.    I  believe  she  never 
has  had  a  home." 

Mrs.  Thornbnrg  withdrew  her  gaze  from  him. 
She  concerned  herself  with  the  rings  on  her  thin, 
white  fingers.  "How  did  you  happen  to  be  with 
her  in  the  theatre?"  she  asked. 

"I  was  in  one  of  the  upper  boxes.  I  don't  know 
how  she  came  to  be  there.  I  beheve  she  couldn't 
find  a  seat  anywhere  else." 

"And  you'd  never  seen  her  before?'* 

"Never." 

There  was  an  imcomf  or  table  silence.  Both 
Tliomburg  and  Baron  were  looking  interestedly 
at  Mrs.  Thomburg,  who  refused  to  lift  her  eyes. 
"I  wonder  how  you  happened  to  take  her  to  your 
home?"  she  asked  finally. 

Baron  laughed  uneasily.  "I'm  wondering  my- 
self," he  said.  "Nobody  seems  to  approve  of  what 
I  did.  But  if  you  could  have  seen  her!  She's 
really  quite  wonderful.  Very  pretty,  you  know, 
and  inteUigent.  But  that  isn't  it,  after  all.  She 
is  so  charmingly  frank.  I  think  that's  it.  It's 
unusual  in  a  child." 

"Yes,  indeed,"  agreed  Mrs.  Thomburg.  "Un- 
usual in  any  one,  I  should  say." 

"Why,  perhaps  it  is,"  agreed  Baron  simply. 
He  was  not  a  Httle  puzzled  by  something  in  Mrs. 
Thomburg's  manner. 

"And  why  don't  you  want  to  keep  her?"  she 
wanted  to  know. 

132 


How  a  Conveyance  Came 

"We  meant  to.  But  it  turns  out  that  she  and 
my  mother  are — well,  antagonistic." 

"That's  unfortimate,  isn't  it?  Please  pardon 
me — ^you  see,  I'm  really  handicapped.  But — ^what 
kind  of  woman  is  your  mother?"  She  put  the 
question  so  softly  that  it  did  not  seem  offensive. 

Baron  hesitated.  "Perhaps  it  will  explain  if  I 
say  that  she  is  elderly?  There  haven't  been  any 
children  in  the  house  for  a  good  many  years.  She 
beUeves — ^what  is  the  famiUar  saying? — that  chil- 
dren ought  to  be  seen  and  not  heard.'* 

Mrs.  Thornburg  hesitated.  "That  wouldn't  be 
quite  the  reason,"  she  said.  "Your  mother  is — is 
orthodox,  I  suspect,  in  her  friendships  and  ways. 
I'm  sure  you  see  what  I  mean." 

"Yes,"  admitted  Baron.  "I  think  you  are  get- 
ting closer  to  the  facts  than  I  did." 

A  pretty,  deHcate  hue  wanned  the  wbman's 
face,  and  her  voice  softened  almost  to  tenderness. 
"I  think  I  know,"  she  went  on.  "The  little  girl 
of  the  stage,  out  of  some  imknown  place  in  Bo- 
hemia— she  must  seem  quite  disturbing,  hopelessly 
out  of  harmony.  ..." 

"You  put  the  case  much  better  than  I  did.  Yet 
you  know  all  that's  scarcely  fair  to  Bonnie  May. 
She's  not  really  bold  and  impertinent,  in  the  usual 
sense  of  those  words.  She  hasn't  had  the  kind  of 
training  other  children  have.  She  has  never  as- 
sociated with  other  children.  You  can  see  that 
instantly.     She  assumes  that  she  has   the  same 

133 


Bonnie  May 

right  to  her  opinion  that  older  people  have  to  theirs. 
She  never  means  to  ofifend.  I  have  an  idea  she's 
really  quite  affectionate.  I  have  an  idea  if  you 
once  won  her  over " 

Mrs.  Thornburg  turned  toward  her  husband 
and  leaned  forward  in  her  chair,  her  eyes  filled 
with  a  soft,  generous  impulse.  ^  When  she  spoke 
her  voice  vibrated  with  feeling. 

"Bring  her  home!"  she  said. 

Baron  fancied  there  was  an  expression  of  triumph 
in  the  manager's  bearing.  "You  mean  now — to- 
night?" he  asked. 

"Why  not  to-night?  I'm  eager  to  have  her; 
really  eager,  now  that  I've  decided." 

"It's  quite  simple,"  declared  Thornburg.  "I 
suppose  you'll  have  to — to  get  a  few  things  ready?" 

Her  whole  being  became  tremulous — she  who 
had  had  no  children  of  her  own,  and  who  knew 
nothing  about  them.  "Nothing  to-night,  to  speak 
of.  To-morrow.  ..."  She  clasped  her  hands  and 
looked  into  vacancy,  as  if  visions  were  coming  to 
her. 

But  Thornburg  was  already  in  an  adjoining 
room  at  the  telephone,  ordering  his  machine. 

Baron  regarded  Mrs.  Thornburg  thoughtfully. 
He  was  surprised  and  touched  by  her  intensity. 
Then  she  looked  at  him,  mutely  appealing.  There 
was  a  long  moment  during  which  two  minds  tried 
to  meet  across  a  barrier  of  emotion  and  a  lack  of 
mutual  knowledge.     Then  Mrs.  Thornburg  spoke. 

134 


How  a  Conveyance  Came 

"You  know,"  she  explained,  "we've  both  been  dis- 
appointed, deeply  disappointed,  because  we  hadn't 
any  of  our  own." 

When  Thomburg's  automobile  stopped  before 
the  Baron  mansion,  half  an  hour  later  that  eve- 
ning, and  the  manager  and  Baron  got  out,  some- 
thing happened. 

Mrs.  Baron,  her  gray  hair  stirring  slightly  in  the 
spring  breeze,  stood  on  the  front  steps  for  all  the 
world  like  an  alert  sentinel. 

"Well,  Victor?"  she  demanded,  as  her  son  ad- 
vanced toward  her.  Her  voice  was  sternly  chal- 
lenging. 

"This  gentleman  has  come  to  take  Bonnie  May 
away,"  replied  her  son.  He  derived  a  certain  sat- 
isfaction from  her  disturbed  state. 

"Whereto?" 

"To  her  new  home,  with  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Thom- 
burg." 

"Do  you  mean  you've  brought  that  machine  to 
take  her  away  to-night?" 

"Why,  yes — certainly." 

"Well,  you  can  just  send  it  away.  You  won't 
need  it  to-night." 

"I  don't  beheve  I  understand,  mother!" 

Baron  had  approached  the  lowest  step  and 
Thomburg  had  taken  a  position  close  to  him. 
Mrs.  Baron,  from  her  superior  height,  frowned 
down  upon  them  as  if  they  were  two  kidnappers 
who  must  be  held  at  bay. 

135 


Bonnie  May 

"You  probably  don't,"  replied  Mrs.  Baron.  "It 
isn't  necessary  that  you  should,  either.  But  you'll 
grasp  my  meaning  when  I  tell  you  that  child  shall 
not  be  taken  away  in  the  dead  of  night,  as  if  she 
were  being  stolen,  and  she  shall  not  leave  this 
house  until  she  has  been  decently  clothed  and  made 
ready  to  go.  I  never  heard  of  such  an  outrageous 
thing  in  my  life."  She  turned  with  fear,  yet  with 
severity,  toward  Thomburg.  When  she  spoke 
again  it  might  have  seemed  that  she  regarded  the 
manager  as  a  kind  of  trained  wolf  over  whom  her 
son  might  possess  an  influence.  "Victor,  tell  him 
to  go  away!"  she  commanded.  "When  I  want 
him  to  come  back  I'll  let  you  know.'* 

She  turned  with  the  air  of  a  queen  who  had 
been  affronted.  In  an  instant  she  had  disappeared. 
The  door  had  been  quite  unmistakably  slammed 
behind  her. 


136 


CHAPTER  Xn 
RELATES  TO  THE  PLAYING  OF  PARTS 

Much  light  is  thrown  upon  the  character  of  Vic- 
tor Baron  when  it  is  said  that  he  was  the  kind  of 
young  man  who  likes  to  sit  in  an  attic  when  the 
rain  is  falling. 

Such  a  young  man  may  possess  many  high  vir- 
tues, certainly;  but  he  can  scarcely  hope  to  escape 
occasional  contact  with  what  is  called  the  world's 
cold  shoulder.  He  is  clearly  not  the  sort  of  person 
who  knows  what  magic  there  is  in  the  matter  of 
percentages  and  other  such  progressive  and  acquis- 
itive sciences. 

We  now  encoimter  this  pectdiar  young  man  in 
his  attic  room,  on  an  afternoon  when  the  rain  was 
falling  steadily. 

Days  had  passed  since  Mrs.  Baron  had  driven 
the  manager,  Thombiu'g,  from  her  front  door. 
Something  like  a  fixed  status  in  the  case  of  Bonnie 
May  had  been  brought  about.  Seemingly,  she  had 
become  a  permanent  member  of  the  Baron  house- 
hold. 

Yet  Baron  was  not  happy.  Having  performed 
his  duty  in  solving  one  problem,  he  had  now  passed 
on  to  another,  an  older  problem. 

137 


Bonnie  May 

There  was  the  fact  of  his  aimless  existence  star- 
ing him  in  the  face;  the  fact  that  he  had  been  home 
from  the  university  over  a  year  now,  and  that  as 
yet  he  had  chosen  no  plough  to  the  handles  of 
which  he  meant  to  set  his  hands. 

He  did  a  Httle  newspaper  writing  when  the  spirit 
moved  him:  articles  and  reviews  which  were  often 
quite  cordially  accepted — and  sometimes  even  ur- 
gently solicited — ^but  which  were  still  subjected  to 
a  measuring  process  in  the  accoimting  room  of  the 
newspaper  offices,  and  which  were  only  meagrely 
profitable. 

To  be  sure,  his  needs  were  quite  simple.  He 
made  no  contributions  to  the  up-keep  of  the  house- 
hold. He  kept  his  tailor's  bills  paid  with  a  reason- 
able degree  of  promptitude.  Usually,  too,  he  had 
funds  enough  for  books  and  other  means  of  recrea- 
tion. Still,  there  were  occasions  when  he  had  to 
go  to  his  mother  for  assistance,  and  this  practise 
he  was  compelled  to  contemplate  with  utter  dis- 
favor. 

It  is  true  that  he  never  asked  his  mother  for 
Money.  The  Barons  pronounced  the  word  money 
as  if  it  were  spelled  with  a  capital  letter,  like  cer- 
tain other  more  or  less  unsavory  names — ^Lucretia 
Borgia,  New  Caledonia,  Christian  Science,  Prus- 
sianism,  or  Twilight  Sleep.  He  used  to  ask  her, 
when  need  arose,  if  she  had  any  street-car-fare  lying 
about.  And  she  would  put  her  index-finger  to  her 
forehead  and  meditate,  and  then  remember  sud- 

138 


Relates  to  the  Playing  of  Parts 

denly  that  there  was  some  in  her  work-basket  on 
the  centre-table,  or  under  something  or  other  on 
the  sideboard.  A  burglar  would  have  had  a  dis- 
couraging experience  in  the  mansion;  not  because 
there  was  never  anything  to  steal,  but  because 
what  money  there  was  was  always  placed  lightly 
in  such  unpromising  places. 

"I  really  ought  to  get  down  to  business,"  con- 
cluded Baron,  sitting  in  his  attic — though  the 
phrase  was  inept,  since  business  was  another  word 
which  the  Barons  pronounced  as  if  it  were  spelled 
with  a  capital  letter. 

The  place  was  depressingly  quiet.  The  house- 
man, Thomason,  might  be  in  his  room,  which  ad- 
joined Baron's;  but  Thomason  never  made  any 
noise.  He  was  almost  uncannily  quiet  at  all  times. 
The  door  between  the  two  rooms  was  never  opened. 
Both  opened  upon  the  hall,  and  when  Thomason 
wished  to  attend  to  his  duties  he  descended  to  the 
floor  below,  where  a  back  stairway  afforded  egress 
to  the  lower  regions  where  his  more  active  interests 
lay. 

Yes,  the  quietude  was  just  now  quite  depressing. 
Sitting  by  an  open  window.  Baron  looked  out  upon 
the  sombre  vista  of  back  street,  which  was  unin- 
viting at  best,  but  which  now  presented  a  doubly 
depressing  aspect  in  the  monotonously  falling  rain. 

An  intercepted  picture  of  a  small  park  was  visible 
several  blocks  away.  The  Lutheran  church,  whose 
bell  was  forever  tinkling  a  message  of  another  time 

139 


Bonnie  May 

and  place,  was  in  sight,  and  so  was  the  shoulder 
of  a  brewery. 

Closer  at  hand  men  and  women  were  hurrying 
in  various  directions,  seeking  escape  from  the  rain. 
They  had  finished  their  day's  work  and  were  now 
going  home  to  enjoy  their  well-earned  bread  and 
meat  and  rest.  Over  there  where  the  wind  currents 
of  two  streets  met  two  small  boys  stood  beneath  a 
dilapidated  umbrella  and  permitted  a  torrent  of 
muddy  water  in  the  gutter  to  run  over  their  bare 
feet.  A  beer-driver,  partly  sheltered  under  the 
hood  of  his  dray,  drove  rumbhngly  over  the  cobble- 
stones toward  the  near-by  brewery.  On  the  ends  of 
passing  street-cars  home-going  crowds  were  trying 
to  escape  the  faUing  rain. 

All  this  constituted  a  back-street  picture  which 
none  of  the  Barons  observed  as  a  rule.  It  was  the 
habit  of  the  family  to  confine  their  outlook  to  the 
front  view.  But  just  now  Baron  was  experiencing 
a  frame  of  mind  which  made  the  humble  side  of 
life  significant  and  even  fascinating. 

Still,  he  was  glad  to  have  his  solitude  invaded 
when,  some  time  later,  he  felt  a  Hght  touch  on  his 
shoulder.  Unheard  and  unobserved,  Bonnie  May 
had  stolen  into  the  room.  She  had  "caught"  him 
in  a  brown  study. 

"Don't  you  think  you've  been  studying  your  part 
long  enough?"  she  asked.  She  was  looking  at  him 
with  cheerful  comprehension. 

"What  part?"  he  asked. 
140 


Relates  to  the  Playing  of  Parts 

"Well,  of  course  I  don't  know  exactly,  except 
that  it  would  be  your  part — ^whatever  that  is. 
That's  what  people  always  do  when  they're  alone, 
isn't  it  ?  They  think  how  certain  words  wiU  sound, 
or  how  they  will  do  this  or  that.  That's  studying 
a  part,  isn't  it?" 

"Oh,  yes — ^in  a  way." 

She  pulled  a  chair  to  the  window,  close  to  him, 
and  climbed  into  it.  "There's  really  something 
funny  about  it,"  she  added  with  a  reminiscent 
manner. 

"Funny?" 

,"I  mean  about  people  and  their  parts.  You 
know,  mostly  people  aren't  thinking  at  all  about 
how  to  do  their  own  parts  better.  They're  imagin- 
ing themselves  in  some  r61e  way  beyond  them. 
When  they  think  they  are  ambitious  they're  mostly 
just  sore  because  somebody  is  doing  better  than 
they  are.  It's  jealousy — not  ambition.  My  good- 
ness, the  Httle  parts  are  important  enough!" 

Baron  regarded  her  in  silence.  Then — "but 
don't  you  think  everybody  ought  to  want  to  ad- 
vance?" he  asked. 

"Oh,  well — ^yes;  but  think  how  a  production 
would  be  if  the  little  parts — even  the  populace — 
were  done  wrong !  If  I  had  only  one  line,  I'd  want  to 
believe  it  was  as  important  as  anything  in  the  play." 

Baron  tried  to  apply  that  philosophy  to  his  own 
"part,"  but  he  had  to  admit  that  the  result  was 
not  at  all  satisfactory. 

141 


Bonnie  May 

"Anyway,"  she  added,  "if  you  do  things  the 
way  your  audience  wants  you  to  do  them,  I'll  bet 
the  big  parts  will  come  fast  enough." 

"The  audience!"  echoed  Baron.  "I'd  want  a 
higher  standard  than  that.  I'd  want  to — to  play 
my  part  the  way  I  thought  it  should  be  done.  I 
wouldn't  be  satisfied  just  with  pleasing  the  au- 
dience." 

"Oh,  but  that's  the  wrong  idea.  I've  seen  people 
like  that.  They  never  were  what  you'd  call  artists. 
Beheve  me,  the  audience  is  the  best  judge." 

Baron,  seeking  for  a  symbol,  beheved  there  was 
no  hope  of  finding  it  in  this.  His  mind  wandered, 
and  when  he  brought  it  back  to  the  child  who  sat 
before  him  she  was  talking  of  her  own  problem  in 
a  way  which  did  not  touch  his  at  all. 

"I  think  it's  the  chance  of  my  life,"  she  was  say- 
ing, "my  being  here  with  you  all." 

"A  chance — ^for  what?"  he  asked. 

"Oh,  to  pick  things  up.  You  know  I  can't  al- 
ways be  a  Little  Eva.  I'll  be  too  old  for  that  after 
a  while.  And  then  it  will  be  handy  for  me  to  have 
a  httle — a  little  class." 

"  Class ! "  exclaimed  Baron.    "  Class  ?  " 

He  had  been  arguing  that  the  one  thing  wrong 
with  his  way  of  thinking  and  Hving  was  that  he 
and  his  family  had  attached  a  silly  importance  to 
the  class  idea,  and  that  it  had  prevented  him  from 
learning  to  be  active  and  useful  in  ways  that  counted 
in  the  world  in  which  he  had  to  live. 

142 


Relates  to  the  Playing  of  Parts 

"It's  a  good  thing,"  defended  Bonnie  May. 
"It's  needed  in  all  the  best  plays.  And  you  can't 
get  it  just  by  going  to  the  wardrobe  mistress,  either. 
It's  something  that's  got  to  be  in  you.  In  order  to  do 
it  right,  you've  pretty  near  got  to  have  the  goods." 

She  couldn't  understand  why  Baron  had  spoken 
with  such  emphasis — ^with  such  resentment. 

"Class,"  mused  Baron  to  himself.  He  looked 
intently  at  this  child  who  did  not  know  where  she 
had  been  bom — ^who  knew  nothing  even  about  her 
parentage. 

But  she  had  turned  to  a  happier  memory.  "You 
know  you  can't  play  the  part  of  Little  Eva  very 
long,  even  when  you  begin  quite  early.  And  I  was 
just  a  Httle  bit  of  a  thing  when  I  played  it  first." 
She  laughed  heartily.  "I  couldn't  even  speak 
plain.  I  used  to  say  '  U'kle  Tom ' !  How  they 
laughed  at  me !  'U'kle  Tom !'  It's  really  a  hideous 
word,  isn't  it?  'Uncle,'  and  'aunt,'  too.  You  can 
see  that  the  man  who  framed  up  those  words  never 
thought  very  highly  of  imcles  and  aunts.  Just 
compare  those  words  with  'father'  and  'mother'! 
Aren't  they  lovely  ?  Father ! "  she  spoke  the  word 
musingly.  "Father!"  Her  body  drooped  forward 
slightly,  and  her  face  was  pitched  up  so  that  she 
was  gazing  into  space.  "Beautiful  words,  and 
mother !  .  .  .  mother  I "  Her  voice  had  become 
a  yearning  whisper. 

Baron  touched  her  shoulders  with  gentle  hands. 
"Don't,  child!"  he  implored  her. 

143 


Bonnie  May 

She  aroused  herself  as  from  a  dream.  Her  eyes 
brightened.  She  looked  at  him  searchingly.  "You 
thought  ...  I  beHeve  I  was,  too ! " 

She  sprang  to  her  feet.  "I  really  do  intend  to 
pick  up  a  lot  of  things  while  I  am  here,"  she  added 
briskly.  She  walked  across  the  floor.  "An  imita- 
tion of  a  person  of  class,"  she  said.  She  moved 
with  studied  elegance.  "You  see,"  she  exclaimed, 
turning  to  him,  "I  can't  do  it  at  all  right !  I  ought 
to  beat  that."  She  returned  to  her  starting-point. 
"See  if  I  do  it  any  better,"  she  said. 

Mrs.  Baron  appeared  in  the  doorway,  but  neither 
Baron  nor  the  child  saw  her.  Again  Bonnie  May 
crossed  the  room.  This  time  she  assumed  a  sHghtly 
careless  air,  and  looked  airily  at  imaginary  objects 
to  right  and  left.  Her  movement  was  slightly  un- 
dulating. She  turned  to  Baron  suddenly:  "What 
you  have  to  do  is  to  be  really  proud,  without  think- 
ing about  it.  I  know  how  it  ought  to  be  done,  but 
it's  hard  to  get  the  hang  of  it.  If  you  don't  get  it 
just  right  you're  likely  to  look  like  a  saleslady." 
She  discovered  Mrs.  Baron,  who  stood  rather  scorn- 
fully in  the  doorway. 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Baron!"  she  exclaimed.  She  was 
somewhat  dismayed.  She  thought  of  adopting  a 
conciliatory  course.  "You  could  show  us  just 
what  I  mean,  if  you  would,"  she  said. 

"I  came  to  say  that  dinner  is  ready,"  said  Mrs. 
Baron.    "Could  show  you  what?" 

"  Won't  you  please  come  here — quite  over  to  this 
144 


Relates  to  the  Playing  of  Parts 

end  of  the  room  ?  Now  please  go  out.  We'll  come 
right  away." 

Mrs.  Baron  regarded  her  sternly.  Bonnie  May 
flushed  and  her  glance  became  softly  appealing. 
She  took  Mrs.  Baron's  hand  and  patted  it.  "I'm 
not  being  rude,  really,"  she  declared.  "It's  as  if 
we  were  asking  you  to  settle  a  bet,  you  know." 

"I  don't  understand  at  all." 

"Well,  please  don't  be  angry.  If  you  are,  it 
will  spoil  everything." 

Mrs.  Baron  turned  to  her  son.  He  was  tele- 
graphing to  her  an  earnest  appeal,  in  which  she 
read  an  assurance  that  she  was  not  to  be  made 
ridiculous,  even  from  the  extraordinary  view-point 
of  Bonnie  May. 

"Did  you  understand  that  dinner  is  ready?"  she 
asked. 

"Yes,  mother.    We'll  be  right  down." 

Mrs.  Baron  left  the  room. 

"Look  at  it!  Look  at  it!"  whispered  Bonnie 
May.  Her  hands  were  clasped  in  a  worshipful  ec- 
stasy. Her  eyes  seemed  to  retain  the  picture  after 
Mrs.  Baron  had  disappeared.  Then  she  turned 
with  swift  intensity  to  Baron. 

"Oh,  I  do  hope  she'll  care  for  me  a  little!"  she 
exclaimed.    "She's  so — so  legitimate!" 


145 


CHAPTER  XIII 

A  MYSTERIOUS  SEARCH  BEGINS 

From  a  sky  that  had  been  rapidly  clearing,  a  bolt 
feU. 

Somewhere  in  the  city,  in  what  mysterious  spot 
Baron  could  not  surmise,  a  search  for  Bonnie  May 
began.  Like  a  wireless  message  seeking  persistently 
for  a  receiving-centre,  the  quest  of  the  unclaimed 
child  laimched  itself. 

The  afternoon  deHvery  of  letters  at  the  mansion 
had  been  made,  and  Bonnie  May  met  the  carrier 
at  the  door. 

A  moment  later  she  entered  the  Hbrary,  where 
Baron  sat,  and  laid  before  him  a  single  letter. 

He  examined  postmark  and  inscription  without 
being  in  the  least  enhghtened.  With  a  pair  of 
scissors  he  cut  the  end  from  the  envelope  and  drew 
forth  the  single  sheet  it  contained. 

His  glance  dropped  to  the  bottom  of  the  sheet, 
and  then  he  sat  up  suddenly  erect,  and  uttered  an 
unintelligible  exclamation. 

For  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  had  received  an 
anonymous  communication. 

The  thing  had  the  merit  of  brevity: 
Do  not  give  up  the  child,  Bonnie  May,  to  any  one 
who  does  not  present  a  legal  claim  on  her^ 

146 


A  Mysterious  Search  Begins 

A  disguised  handwriting.  This  was  obvious 
from  certain  exaggerations  and  a  lack  of  symmetry. 

He  replaced  the  missive  in  its  envelope,  and  then 
he  took  it  out  and  read  it  again. 

The  thing  excited  him.  Who  could  be  seeking 
the  child,  after  days  of  silence — even  of  hiding? 
And  who  could  have  known  of  his  possession  of 
her?    Again,  why  make  a  mystery  of  the  matter? 

He  threw  the  puzzhng  words  aside.  People  did 
not  pay  any  attention  to  anonymous  communica- 
tions, he  reflected. 

Nevertheless,  he  could  not  calm  himself.  He 
started  nervously  at  the  sound  of  the  telephone- 
bell  down  in  the  dining-room. 

Responding,  he  heard  Thombnrg's  voice  at  the 
other  end  of  the  wire. 

''Is  this  Baron?  Say,  can  you  come  down  to 
my  office  right  away?"  The  manager's  voice  be- 
trayed excitement.  Baron  thought.  Or  was  he 
himself  in  an  abnormal  frame  of  mind? 

"Yes,  certainly,"  he  rephed.  He  added:  "Any- 
thing wrong  ?  " 

"Why — no;  no,  I  think  not.  I'll  tell  you  when 
you  get  here." 

Something  was  wrong,  however — ^Baron  could 
see  it  the  moment  he  entered  the  manager's  office, 
half  an  hour  later. 

He  had  to  wait  a  little  while  for  an  audience. 
Thomburg  was  talking  to  an  actress — or  to  a  woman 
who  had  the  appearance  of  an  actress.    She  sat  with 

147 


Bonnie  May 

iter  back  toward  the  office  door  and  did  not  turn. 
But  Thomburg,  upon  Baron's  entrance,  made  a 
very  obvious  effort  to  bring  the  interview  with  this 
earlier  caller  to  an  end.  He  seemed  vastly  uncom- 
fortable. 

"What  you  ought  to  do  is  to  get  a  stock  en- 
gagement somewhere,"  Thomburg  was  saying  im- 
patiently. "I  might  possibly  get  you  in  with 
Abramson,  out  in  San  Francisco.  He  wrote  me 
the  other  day  about  a  utility  woman.  I'll  look  up 
his  letter  and  see  if  there's  anything  in  it.  You 
might  come  back." 

He  arose  with  decision,  fairly  lifting  the  woman 
to  her  feet  by  the  force  of  peremptory  example. 
"About  that  other  matter — "  he  moved  toward 
the  door,  clearly  intimating  that  he  wished  to 
finish  what  he  had  to  say  outside  the  office. 

The  woman  followed;  but  in  passing  Baron  she 
paused,  and  her  eyes  rested  upon  him  sharply. 
There  was  a  suggestion  of  suspicion  in  her  manner, 
in  her  glance,  and  Baron  had  the  vexing  sensation 
of  having  seen  her  before  without  being  able  to 
identify  her.  A  furrow  appeared  in  his  forehead. 
He  made  a  determined  effort  to  remember.  No, 
he  couldn't  place  her.  She  might  be  an  actress  he 
had  seen  on  the  stage  somewhere  or  other. 

She  and  Thomburg  passed  out  of  the  office  and 
the  manager  closed  the  door  behind  him.  Baron 
could  still  hear  their  voices,  now  lowered  to  an 
angry  whisper.  Thomburg  seemed  to  be  speaking 
accusingly,  but  Baron  could  not  catch  the  words. 

148 


A  Mysterious  Search  Begins 

Then  this  one  sentence,  in  Thomburg's  voice, 
came  sharply:  "I  tell  you,  you've  worked  me  as 
long  as  you're  going  to ! " 

Then  the  manager,  flushed  and  excited,  re-entered 
the  office  and  closed  the  door  angrily. 

And  in  that  moment  Baron  remembered:  That 
was  the  woman  who  had  stood  in  the  theatre,  talk- 
ing in  a  tense  fashion  with  the  manager,  the  day  he, 
Baron,  had  sat  up  in  the  balcony  box  with  Bonnie 
May! 

He  had  no  time  to  ponder  this  fact,  however. 
Thomburg  turned  to  him  abruptly.  "Have  you 
seen  the  Times  to-day?"  he  asked. 

"I  glanced  at  it.    Why?" 

The  manager  took  a  copy  of  the  paper  from  a 
pigeonhole  in  his  desk.  "Look  at  that,"  he  di- 
rected, handing  the  paper  to  Baron.  It  was  folded 
so  that  a  somewhat  obsciure  item  was  uppermost. 

Baron  read:  "Any  one  having  knowledge  of  the 
whereabouts  of  the  child  calling  herself  Bonnie 
May,  and  professionally  known  by  that  name,  will 
please  communicate  with  X  Y  Z,  in  care  of  the 
Times  J* 

Baron  dropped  the  paper  on  the  desk  and  turned 
to  Thomburg  without  speaking. 

The  manager,  now  strangely  quiet  and  morose, 
gazed  abstractedly  at  the  floor.  "I  wish,"  he  said 
at  length,  "I  wish  she  was  in  Tophet,  or  somewhere 
else  outside  my  jurisdiction." 

"But  how  do  you  know  it  is  a  she?"  demanded 
Baron,  indicating  the  newspaper. 

149 


Bonnie  May 

"I  mean  Bonnie  May.  I  don't  know  anything 
about  that  advertisement." 

For  a  moment  Baron  could  only  stare  at  the 
manager.  He  was  wholly  at  sea.  He  was  begin- 
ning to  feel  a  deep  resentment.  He  had  done  nothing 
that  a  man  need  apologize  for.  By  a  fair  enough  in- 
terpretation it  might  be  said  that  he  had  tried  to 
do  a  good  deed.  And  now  he  was  being  caught  in 
the  meshes  of  a  mystery — and  Thomburg  was  be- 
having disagreeably,  unreasonably. 

He  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and  tried  to  assume 
a  perfectly  tranquil  manner.  He  was  determined 
not  to  lose  his  head. 

"This  advertisement,"  he  said,  "seems  to  solve 
the  problem.  The  writer  of  it  may  not  care  to  take 
Bonnie  May  to  Tophet;  but  at  least  he — or  she — 
seems  ready  enough  to  take  her  off  our  hands.  Off 
my  hands,  I  should  say.  What  more  do  you 
want?" 

The  manager  scowled.  "I  don't  want  anybody  to 
take  her  off  your  hands,  nor  my  hands." 

"Why  not?    If  they're  entitled  to  her " 

"I  don't  believe  they're  entitled  to  her.  A  child 
like  that.  .  .  .  She's  worth  a  lot  to  people  who 
know  how  to  handle  her.  Somebody  who  needs 
her  in  his  business  is  probably  trying  to  get  hold 
of  her." 

"Oh,  that  doesn't  sound  reasonable  to  me  at 
all.  Somebody  has  had  charge  of  her.  Somebody 
brought  her  to  the  theatre.     Her  mother,  in  all 

150 


A  Mysterious  Search  Begins 

probability."  Baron  tried  to  speak  quite  casually. 
*' Possibly  her  father's  somewhere  about,  too." 

Thomburg  glared  resentfully  at  the  younger 
man.  "If  her  mother  was  about,"  he  demanded, 
*' would  she  have  waited  all  this  while  to  speak?" 

Baron  was  silenced  for  a  moment.  "Well,  then," 
he  asked  at  length,  "what  is  your  sizing  up  of  the 
case?" 

"I  think  she  was  deserted,  maybe  because  for 
the  moment  she  was  a  burden.  I  think  some  tin- 
horn manager  is  looking  for  her  now.  And  here's 
another  thing  I  know.    I  want  her  myself ! " 

"But  you  were  just  saying " 

"Well,  then,  my  wife  wants  her.  It*s  the  same 
thing.  She  made  up  her  mind,  and  now  she  won't 
change  it.  When  I  went  home  that  night  and  re- 
ported that  we  couldn't  have  her,  she  began  to  cry. 
She  wouldn't  leave  her  bed  the  next  morning. 
She's  been  sick  ever  since.  She'll  lie  for  hours  at 
a  time  without  saying  anything  but — 'I  wish  we 
could  have  had  the  Httle  girl.'  It's  nonsense,  of 
course;  but  you  have  to  take  things  as  you  find 
them.  The  doctor  says  I  must  get  her  interested 
in  something — as  if  the  thing  were  perfectly  simple. 
If  he'd  ever  nm  a  theatre  he'd  know  what  it  means 
to  get  anybody  interested.  Well,  there.  ..."  He 
calmed  himself  suddenly  and  leaned  toward  Baron. 
His  next  words  were  httle  more  than  whispered. 
"You  see,"  he  said,  "I'm  fond  of  her — of  the  wife. 
I  don't  know  if  you  could  understand  how  I  feel. 

151 


Bonnie  May- 
She's  all  I've  got,  and  there's  a  good  bit  of  the  child 
about  her,  and  she  hasn't  been  quite  well  for  a  long 
time.  She  needs  me  to  think  and  plan  for  her — to 
understand  her,  as  far  as  I  can.  You  interested  her 
in  this  child.  She  wants  her.  And  I  want  her  to 
have  her." 

"That's  plain,"  said  Baron.  He  was  trying  not 
to  be  too  much  influenced  by  the  manager's  sudden 
humility,  his  voicing  of  a  need.  So  far  as  he  knew, 
he  had  his  own  rights  in  the  case.  And  above  every- 
thing else  there  was  to  be  considered  Bonnie  May's 
right.  If  it  seemed  best  for  her  to  remain  in  the 
mansion,  there,  Baron  resolved,  she  should  re- 
main, until  he  was  forced  to  release  her.  "That's 
plain,"  he  repeated.  "I  think  it  makes  the  case 
simple  enough.  At  least  it  makes  it  simpler.  Why 
not  communicate  with  these  people  who  are  ad- 
vertising? If  they  have  any  claim  on  her  you  can 
come  to  terms  with  them.  They  ought  to  be 
glad  to  see  her  placed  in  a  good  home.  If  they 
haven't  any  claims,  the  sooner  we  know  it  the 
better." 

"I  don't  intend  to  pay  any  attention  to  them," 
declared  Thomburg.  He  was  sullen  and  stubborn 
again. 

"Well,  of  course  it  isn't  up  to  you,"  agreed  Baron 
mildly.  "It's  I  who  must  do  it,  as  of  course  I 
shall." 

"That's  precisely  what  I  don't  want  you  to  do. 
That's  why  I  sent  for  you." 

152 


A  Mysterious  Search  Begins 

Baron  flushed.    "But — "  he  objected. 

"Do  you  know  what'll  happen  if  you  show  your 
hand?  I'll  tell  you.  A  lot  of  mountebanks  will  be 
pouring  into  your  house.  They'll  make  it  look 
like  a  third-rate  booking  agency.  Yoiu:  people 
will  Uke  that!" 

Baron  could  see  the  picture:  the  grotesque  persons 
at  his  door;  the  sallow  tragedian  with  a  bass  voice 
and  no  mentaUty  to  speak  of;  the  low  comedian, 
fat  and  obtuse;  the  ingenue  with  big,  childish  eyes 
and  deep  lines  in  her  face;  the  leading  lady  with  a 
self-imposed  burden  of  cheap  jewelry.  He  saw,  too, 
the  big-hearted  among  them,  gravely  kind  toward 
children,  and  with  a  carefully  schooled  yearning 
for  them. 

He  straightened  up  with  a  jerk.  "Oh,  that 
wouldn't  be  necessary,"  he  declared.  "I  could 
correspond  with  them  through  the  agency  of  the 
newspaper.  I  needn't  give  them  my  name  and  ad- 
dress at  all.  I  could  require  proper  proofs  before 
I  appeared  in  the  matter  at  all  personally." 

This  idea  seemed  to  strike  Thombiu-g  as  a  method 
of  escape  from  a  dilemma.  "Why  shouldn't  I  have 
thought  of  that  way  myself?"  he  exclaimed.  "I 
can  do  it  that  way,  of  course.  Better  for  me  than 
for  you.    More  in  my  line,  at  least." 

"I'm  inclined  to  think  I  ought  to  do  it  myself,'* 
objected  Baron.  "I  really  don't  see  why  I  should 
leave  it  to  you."  Something  in  Thomburg's  manner 
had  created  a  suspicion  in  his  mind.     There  was 

153 


Bonnie  May 

something  too  eager  in  the  manager's  tone;  there 
was  a  hint  of  cunning. 

"If  I  give  you  my  word?"  said  Thornburg.  He 
was  resentful,  offended.  His  face  had  flamed  to 
the  roots  of  his  hair. 

"Oh,  if  you  give  me  your  word,"  agreed  Baron 
lightly.  "I've  no  objection.  Certainly,  go  ahead." 
He  scrutinized  his  stick  with  a  long,  frowning  in- 
spection. Then  he  arose  with  decision.  "I'll  leave 
it  to  you,"  he  added.  "Only,  I  want  to  make  one 
condition." 

"  Oh— a  condition !    Well,  what  ?  " 

"You'll  not  take  offense,  Thornburg.  You  see, 
I  have  certain  scruples."  His  mind  had  gone  back 
over  several  episodes,  and  his  analysis  of  them 
pointed  unyieldingly  to  one  plain  duty.  "I  want 
to  ask  you  just  one  question,  and  you're  to  answer 
it  in  just  a  word:  Yes,  or  No." 

"Well,  what's  the  question?" 

Baron  looked  steadily  into  the  other's  eyes. 

"The  woman  who  was  here  in  your  office  when 
I  came  in;  who  stood  with  you  in  the  theatre  that 
day  I  took  Bonnie  May  home " 

"WeU?" 

"Is  she  the — the  former  Mrs.  Thornburg?  Is 
she  the  mother  of  Bonnie  May?'* 

And  Thornburg's  answer  came  resolutely,  prompt- 
ly, in  the  tone  of  a  man  who  tells  the  truth: 

"No!" 


154 


CHAPTER  XIV 

MR.  ADDIS  RECEWES  SUPPORT 

Unconscious  that  destiny  had  its  eye  upon  her, 
Bonnie  May  found  increasing  comfort  and  con- 
tentment in  her  new  home. 

As  a  result  of  the  dehghted  labors  of  Flora,  her 
wardrobe  had  become  more  complete  than  it  had 
ever  been  before.  She  developed  such  pride  in  the 
possession  of  many  garments  that  Flora  forgot  her 
own  needs  and  gave  disproportionately  of  her  time 
and  means  to  the  "outfitting"  of  the  guest  whose 
needs  were  so  urgent. 

As  if  for  her  special  entertainment,  imusual 
things  happened. 

For  example,  Mr.  Addis  called  again.  And  a 
call  from  Mr.  Addis  became,  in  Bonnie  May's 
drama-loving  mind,  the  most  deHcious  form  of  in- 
trigue. Mrs.  Baron  became  indignant  at  the  very 
mention  of  Mr.  Addis's  name.  Flora  became 
quietly  wistful. 

Elneeling  on  a  low  Brussels  hassock  at  the  front 
window  of  the  upper  floor  one  night,  Bonnie  May 
saw  the  figure  of  a  man  extricate  itself  from  the 
passing  current  of  humanity  and  make  resolutely 
for  the  Baron  door. 

155 


Bonnie  May 

She  swiftly  placed  her  finger  on  her  lip  and  re- 
flected.   "Mr.  Addis!"  she  exclaimed  in  a  whisper. 

She  made  a  supreme  eflort  to  leave  the  room 
without  appearing  to  have  any  definite  purpose. 
Once  out  of  sight  in  the  haU,  however,  she  rushed 
down  the  stairs,  just  in  time  to  open  the  door  be- 
fore the  bell  was  rung.  She  was  in  an  elated  state. 
She  had  the  lower  floor  to  herself,  save  for  Mrs. 
Shepard,  who  would  be  sure  not  to  interrupt. 

"Oh!  Mr.  Addis!"  she  whispered  eagerly.  She 
promptly  ushered  him  into  the  drawing-room  and 
quietly  closed  the  door  with  an  effect  of  being  absent- 
minded,  rather  than  designing.  "Please  sit  down," 
she  said.    She  had  the  light  burning  immediately. 

She  drew  a  chair  forward  and  stood  beside  it  a 
moment,  and  under  her  inspection  Mr.  Addis's 
cheeks  took  on  even  a  deeper  rosiness  and  his  brown 
eyes  twinkled. 

"How  is — ^my  confederate?"  he  asked. 

She  was  delighted.  "  That's  it,"  she  said.  "  That's 
what  I  want  to  be.    Your  confederate.    May  I?" 

"You  may,"  he  said  with  emphasis. 

She  had  sat  down.  "You  know,"  she  confided, 
"I'm  strong  for  what  you  call  heart  interest.  If 
you  haven't  got  anything  but  manners  in  your 
show  you  soon  find  that  people  are  patronizing  the 
burlesque  houses.     Don't  you  think  I'm  right?" 

Mr.  Addis  did  not  make  a  very  pertinent  re- 
sponse to  this.  "You're  a  queer  Httle  customer," 
he  said. 

156 


Mr.  Addis  Receives  Support 

"That's  what  I  call  favorable  criticism  put  into 
plain  words.  I  thank  you."  She  added:  "I  want 
to  be  friends  with  you  if  you'll  let  me  because  I 
think  we  can't  have  the  right  kind  of  heart  interest 
around  here  imless  you — unless  you  take  a  more 
prominent  part." 

Mr.  Addis  nodded.  "That's  my  idea,  too.  That's 
why  I  called.  If  you'll  tell  Mrs.  Baron  I'm  here, 
I'll  see  if  I  can't  get  her  to  agree  with  us." 

Bonnie  May  did  not  stir.  "Please  not  just  yet," 
she  begged.  "Couldn't  we  talk  things  over  first? 
If  I  could  find  out  what's  wrong.  ..."  She  looked 
at  him  with  pretty  embarrassment. 

"What,  for  instance,  would  you  like  to  know?" 

She  pulled  herself  farther  back  into  her  chair 
and  reflected  a  moment.  "Would  you  mind,"  she 
asked,  "telling  me  how  you  got  acquainted  with 
Miss  Flora?" 

"Not  at  all.  She's  been  coming  to  my  store — to 
order  things — ever  since  she  was  a  Httle  girl." 

"Oh!  your  store.     Well,  go  on." 

"And  occasionally  I've  dropped  into  the  church 
she  goes  to.    You  know  who  I  am,  I  suppose?" 

She  beamed  upon  him.  "I  may  not  have  all  the 
details.    Suppose  you  make  a  complete  confession." 

He  shot  a  dubious  glance  at  her;  then  he  smiled. 
Bonnie  May  thought  his  teeth  were  quite  wonder- 
ful.   "I'm  the  head  of  the  Addis  Stores  Company." 

Bonnie  May  looked  sHghtly  dismayed. 

"A   business   man,"   added   Mr.   Addis   firmly. 

157 


Bonnie  May 

"IVe  admired  Miss  Flora  a  very  long  time.  I  had 
chances  just  to  be  nice  and  polite  to  her.  I  haven't 
taken  any  pains  to  hide  from  her,  for  a  year  or 
so " 

"I  understand,"  Bonnie  May  finished  for  him. 

"Well,  then.  But  the  trouble  is  that  Mrs. 
Baron " 

"She  can  only  see  you  with  a  pencil  behind  your 
ear,"  supplemented  Bonnie  May. 

Mr.  Addis  laughed.  "Now  you  have  it!"  he 
agreed. 

Bonnie  May  pondered.  "You  know  you're  not 
SL  regular-looking  Romeo,"  she  conceded. 

"I  know  that  very  well.  But  at  the  same 
time " 

She  gave  him  time  to  finish;  then,  as  he  seemed 
to  lack  words,  she  came  to  his  aid  again:  "If  you 
undertook  to  pay  a  lady's  travelling  expenses,  it 
would  take  a  pretty  smooth  lago  to  make  you  do 
anything  nasty." 

"That's  it!"  agreed  Mr.  Addis  with  emphasis. 

"Have  you  tried  the — the  little,  unimportant 
things?" 

"  As  for  example  ?  " 

"Well,  just  as  a  suggestion:  you  know  you 
weren't  carrying  a  stick  when  you  came  in  to- 
night." 

"Oh,  that  sort  of  thing.  You  see,  that's  not  in 
my  line  at  all.  I  wouldn't  know  how  to  carry  a 
stick,  or  where  to  put  it.    I  don't  see  any  use  in 

158 


Mr.  Addis  Receives  Support 

'em  except  to  beat  off  dogs,  maybe — and  all  the 
dogs  like  me!" 

Bomiie  May  nodded.  "After  all,  I  believe  you're 
right  in  not  taking  up  that  sort  of  thing.  Anyway, 
I  wasn't  criticising.  What  I  was  saying  was  just 
— ^just  confederate  stuff,  you  know." 

"Yes,  I  understand." 

"Would  you.  .  .  .  Would  you  mind  telling  me 
what  you  think  about  mostly?  When  you're  not 
thinking  about  Miss  Flora?" 

Mr.  Addis  smiled  quite  dehghtedly.  "Not  at 
all.  I  think  of  a  nice  home,  you  know.  A  place 
out  in  the  suburbs,  with  several  acres  of  ground, 
with  a  driveway,  and — and  chickens,"  he  con- 
cluded somewhat  lamely. 

"Chickens!"  echoed  Bonnie  May. 

"Well,  there  would  be  fresh  eggs,  you  know; 
and  then  the  look  of  them  about  the  place — espe- 
cially the  httle  ones,  and  roosters  crowing  in  the 
morning." 

She  shook  her  head  dubiously.  "What  else?" 
she  asked. 

"Oh,  such  things  as  investments.  Ground  in 
the  new  additions,  where  the  values  are  going  up 
fast.    Such  things." 

Bonnie  May  put  up  a  restraining  hand.  "That 
will  do,"  she  said.  "Now  tell  me  what  chance  you 
have  of  seeing  Flora  when  you — ^when  you  haven't 
got  your  pencil  behind  your  ear." 

"  Why,  there's  church.    I  can  always  go  to  church. 

159 


Bonnie  May 

They  make  a  real  to-do  over  me  there.  They  like 
to  come  to  me  for  subscriptions,  you  know." 

At  the  word  church  she  looked  at  him  with 
quickened  interest.  "Did  they  try  to  put  over 
anything  on  you  the  first  time  you  went  there?" 
she  asked. 

"Not  a  thing." 

"That's  funny."  She  put  her  own  experiences 
out  of  her  mind.  "Well,"  she  resmned,  "why 
don't  you  go  to  church  regularly  and  let  them  see 
how  nice  and  friendly  you  look  when  you  haven't 
got  your  make-up  on  ?  " 

"I've  thought  of  that.  But  you  see,  it  doesn't 
seem  quite  honest.  As  I  imderstand  it,  church  is 
mostly  for  singing,  and  I  couldn't  carry  a  tune  any 
more  than  a  bird  could  carry  a  bank-account.  I'd 
feel  like  an  impostor  if  I  went." 

Bonnie  May,  sitting  bolt  upright  in  her  chair, 
put  her  hand  on  her  heart  and  moved  her  head, 
carefuUy  erect,  as  far  forward  as  possible,  without 
changing  the  attitude  of  her  shoulders. 

"I  greet  you,"  she  said.    "I  can't  sing,  either." 

"And  so  going  to  church  don't  seem  to  put  me 
in  Miss  Flora's  class  at  all." 

"Still,"  observed  Bonnie  May  thoughtfully, 
"Flora  is  not  one  of  the  Original  Songbird  Sisters 
herseH." 

"No,  but  she  follows  along.  And  I  never  could 
get  the  hang  of  the  thing  at  all." 

Bonnie  May  laughed  swiftly,  and  then  cast  a 
i6o 


Mr.  Addis  Receives  Support 

cautious  eye  at  the  ceiling,  and  checked  herself. 
"After  all,"  she  said,  "we're  not  getting  at  the 
real  trouble,  whatever  it  is.  You  know  the  dif- 
ference between  the  old  families  and  the — the  oth- 
ers, is  that  the  others  talk  about  making  money, 
while  the  old  families  talk  about  spending  it.  You're 
not  an  old  family,  probably?" 

"Well,  I  never  talk  about  it,  if  I  am.  I  like  to 
work.  I  like  to  be  interested  in  things  that  every- 
body else  is  interested  in.  The  objection  to  me,  I 
think,  is  that  my  business  happens  to  be  groceries. 
People  think  of  soap,  I  suppose,  and  a  crate  of 
eggs  with  here  and  there  a  broken  one  in  it.  Ugly 
things,  you  know." 

Bonnie  May  shuddered.  "Please  don't!"  she 
implored.  "You  must  keep  your  mind  off  of  it. 
Your  suburban-home  idea  is  nice.  But  put  a  soft 
pedal  on  the  chickens.  Think  of  Chinese  lanterns. 
Lawn-parties,  I  mean.  Talk  about  al  fresco  per- 
formances of  Shakespeare  and  house-parties.  Don't 
let  anybody  think  about  how  you  earn  money. 
Let  them  believe  you've  just  got  it.  Really,  it's  not 
a  very  nice  subject.  K  the  word '  money'  ever  comes 
up,  just  yawn  and  say  something  about  not  being 
able  to  decide  whether  you  want  to  spend  the  summer 
in  the  Yellowstone  or  in  the  Thousand  Islands." 

Mr.  Addis  shook  his  head.  "No,"  he  said.  "I 
couldn't  put  on  airs.  You  see,  I  think  Miss  Flora 
thinks  enough  of  me  as  I  am,  and  I  couldn't  be 
something  different  just  to  please  her  mother." 

i6i 


Bonnie  May 

"Had  you  thought  of  the  old-fashioned  way — 
of  running  away?" 

Mr.  Addis  became  quite  serious.  "Miss  Flora's 
not  that  kind,"  he  said  promptly.  "No,  I've  got 
to  fight  it  out  with — ^with  the  mother." 

At  this  jimcture  Mrs.  Baron,  in  her  sitting-room, 
closed  the  anthology  with  the  flexible  leather  covers 
and  inclined  her  head  slightly. 

"Flora,"  she  called,  "I'm  sure  I  hear  voices 
down-stairs.    Will  you  go  see?" 

Flora  appeared  in  the  doorway.  "I  can't  hear 
anything,"  she  said.  "Where's  Bonnie  May?  I 
thought  she  was  here  with  you." 

"I  thought  she  was  here,  too,  until  just  now. 
She  may  be  *  receiving'  to-night.  Of  course,  she 
wouldn't  think  it  necessary  to  take  us  into  her 
confidence." 

Flora  sighed  softly.  "I  really  don't  hear  any- 
body," she  said.  "I  expect  she's  gone  up  to  Vic- 
tor's room."  A  smile  came  to  her  lips  as  she  went 
down-stairs.  Her  mother's  petulance  had  been  of 
the  sort  she  might  be  expected  to  manifest  if  her 
own  child  had  irritated  her. 

She  was  startled  when  she  opened  the  drawing- 
room  door  and  confronted  Mr.  Addis  and  Bonnie 
May. 

"Enter  the  heroine!"  was  the  child's  greeting. 
"Exit  the  crowd."  She  would  have  left  the  room, 
then,  but  Miss  Baron  stood  in  her  way. 

162 


'Enter  the  heroine!"  was  the  child's  greeting. 


Mr.  Addis  Receives  Support 

"Bonnie  May!"  she  cried  with  gentle  severity, 
"I'm  afraid  you're  going  to  get  us  all  into  trouble 
one  of  these  days."  She  turned  with  a  flush  to  Mr. 
Addis.  "Good  evening,"  she  said,  with  reproach 
in  her  tone.  She  added,  with  gentle  mischief:  "You 
seem  to  have  gained  an  ally." 

Mr.  Addis  was  on  his  feet,  shaking  her  hand 
vigorously.  "I  have,"  he  confessed.  "But  please 
don't  blame  her.  I  think  I  haven't  set  her  a  very 
good  example." 

Flora  turned  to  the  child  with  a  kind  of  forlorn 
fondness  and  made  a  characteristic  movement,  as 
if  she  were  pushing  escaping  strands  of  hair  into 
place.  She  appeared  not  to  observe  that  Mr.  Addis 
was  still  holding  her  hand.  Then  with  evident  de- 
cision she  moved  away  from  him. 

"It  won't  do,"  she  declared,  meeting  the  visitor's 
eyes.    "It's  not  the  right  way  to  do  things." 

"I've  been  trying  to  think  of  the  right  way," 
repHed  Mr.  Addis  with  dignity. 

"But  doing  things  secretly  ...  I  don't  believe 
anything  is  worth  having  unless  you  can  have  it 
honestly — even  a  friendship.  You  know  how 
mother  feels.  And — ^and  I  can't  quarrel  with  her. 
I  think  a  Httle  injustice  is  better  than  quarrelling." 
Her  voice  held  a  note  of  sadness,  of  discourage- 
ment. 

Mr.  Addis  suddenly  stood  more  erect.  "Miss 
Flora,  you're  right,"  he  said.  ''I  mustn't  try  to 
hide  anything.    I  won't." 

163 


Bonnie  May 

"Bonnie  May,"  said  Flora,  "will  you  please  go 
and  ask  mother  to  come  down?" 

"That's  it,"  agreed  Mr.  Addis.  "The  thing  for 
me  to  do  is  to  have  a  little  talk  with  her."  And 
then  they  waited,  without  looking  at  each  other, 
until  Mrs.  Baron  descended  the  stairs  and  entered 
the  room. 

The  poor  old  lady's  manner  hardened  the  in- 
stant she  appeared. 

"Good  evening,  Mr.  Addis,"  she  said  in  a  tone 
of  frank  resentment.  "I  don't  believe  we  were 
expecting  you." 

"No,  I  wasn't  expected,"  repUed  Mr.  Addis.  "I 
hope  you'll  excuse  me  for  taking  you  by  surprise." 

Flora  was  holding  to  a  chair  as  if  for  support. 
She  did  not  sit  down. 

."There's  no  harm  done,"  said  Mrs.  Baron.  "I 
dare  say  there  won't  be."  She  seated  herself  with 
great  fimmess  of  purpose  and  looked  from  Mr. 
Addis  to  Flora,  and  then  back  to  Mr.  Addis  with- 
out winking. 

This  aloof  form  of  bullying  had  a  happy  effect 
upon  Mr.  Addis.    He  became  ominously  calm. 

"No,  no  harm  at  aU,"  he  said.  "On  the  con- 
trary. I  think  a  little  plain  talk  may  be  the  best 
thing  for  all  of  us.  Maybe  I  haven't  come  to  the 
point  as  I  should  have  done,  up  to  now.  I  think 
I've  been  a  little  timid,  you  know.  But  here's  the 
fact.  I  think  Miss  Flora  here  is  the  finest  girl  I've 
ever  met.    I've  got  great  respect  for  you,  too,  Mrs. 

164 


Mr.  Addis  Receives  Support 

Baron.  And  for  your  family.  But — the  plain 
truth  is,  I  want  Miss  Flora.  I  don't  say  she's  mine 
for  the  asking.  But  I  want  the  right  and  the  chance 
to  consult  her  about  it.  If  she  tells  me  she's  quite 
sure  I  won't  do,  that'U  settle  it.  But  you  seem  to 
have  made  up  your  mind  beforehand  that  Flora 
shall  not  have  a  mind  of  her  own.  One  of  the 
reasons  why  I  think  so  highly  of  her  is  that  she  is 
a  good  daughter.  That  isn't  such  a  common  thing 
nowadays,  Mrs.  Baron.  She's  nice  and  high- 
minded.  She  wouldn't  stoop  to  any  tricks.  She's 
a  young  lady  who  tells  the  truth.  And  that,  if  you 
will  excuse  me,  is  something  I  like  to  do  myself. 
What  I  want  to  point  out  is  that  I  don't  believe 
you've  thought  what  it  means  for  you  to  take  ad- 
vantage of  her  obedience  and  respect.  You  don't 
want  her  to  pay  a  penalty  for  being  a  good  girl. 
Give  her  a  chance.  Give  me  a  chance.  I  don't 
mind  your  proving  to  her  that  I  wouldn't  make 
her  a  good  husband — ^if  you  can.  But  you  can 
trust  to  her  sense  and  to  her  honor.  Be  frank  with 
her.  Don't  treat  her  as  if  she  were  a  child.  You 
know,  ma'am,  it's  her  affair  more  than  it  is  yours, 
after  all.  Give  her  and  me  a  chance  to  talk  it 
over." 

Flora's  color  came  and  went  during  this  patient, 
rather  labored  recital.  The  utterly  prosaic  course 
events  were  taking,  as  a  result  of  her  mother's 
prejudice,  impressed  her  strangely.  She  could  have 
laughed — ^but  also  she  could  have  wept. 

i6s 


Bonnie  May 

Mrs.  Baron  had  refused  to  meet  Mr.  Addis's 
eyes  while  he  spoke,  but  now  she  compelled  herself 
to  regard  him.  Her  eyebrows  were  at  a  most  formi- 
dable elevation.  "I  have  tried  to  impress  you  with 
the  fact,  Mr.  Addis,"  she  said,  "that  I  do  not  con- 
sider you  a  suitable  person  to — to  become  associated 
in  any  way  with  my  family." 

Mr.  Addis  flushed.  "The  loss  would  be  mine, 
ma'am,  if  I  were  not  permitted  to  be  friendly  toward 
all  the  members  of  your  family,  but,  if  you  wiU 
pardon  me,  I  can  very  easily  console  myself  for 
the  loss,  if  I  have  Miss  Flora."  These  words  Mr. 
Addis  spoke  with  unmistakable  emphasis. 

"Would  you  mind,"  said  Mrs.  Baron,  speaking 
very  evenly,  "would  you  mind  not  speaking  quite 
so  loudly?" 

She  succeeded  in  conveying  the  idea  that  he  had 
violated  all  the  laws  of  good  taste,  and  that  she 
had  borne  with  him  like  a  martyr. 

Mr.  Addis  looked  at  her  questioningly.  When 
he  spoke  again  his  voice  was  low,  his  words  were 
measured. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said.  "I  always  tell 
my  young  men  not  to  become  too  spirited  when 
they're  in  earnest.  If  I  have  offended  in  that  way 
I  ask  you  to  excuse  me." 

There  was  a  lump  in  Flora's  throat.     He  had 
accepted  a  rebuke  which  seemed  to  her  needless, 
and  even  cruel,  with  just  the  kind  of  dignity  which  ^ 
her   mother   should   have  prized  above  all  other 

i66 


Mr.  Addis  Receives  Support 

qualities.  And  he  seemed  so  splendidly  simple  and 
earnest  and  strong. 

She  came  forward  with  an  obvious  effort  to  speak 
and  move  easily.  "Mother,"  she  said,  "Mr.  Addis 
is  only  asking  to  be  received  here  as  a  visitor.  He 
has  paid  us  the  compliment  of  wishing  to  become 
better  acquainted  with  us.  Can  you  think  of  any 
good  reason  why  he  shouldn't? — because,  really,  I 
can't  think  of  any  at  all." 

"Oh,  you  can't!"  responded  her  mother.  "Then 
I'll  make  it  plain  to  you.  For  the  present  I  must 
ask  you  to  go  up-stairs  and  let  me  have  a  word 
with  this — this  gentleman,  who  appears  to  have 
his  own  method  of  getting  into  houses  where  he 
isn't  invited." 

Flora  was  too  deeply  woimded  to  respond  to 
this.  Shame  and  grief  were  in  her  glance.  "  Good 
night,"  she  said.  She  went  out  of  the  room  without 
glancing  back.  But  there  was  something  strangely 
eloquent  in  her  exit.  She  seemed  to  take  with  her 
beauty  and  Hght,  and  to  leave  the  room  a  prey  to 
all  manner  of  unloveliness. 

Something  in  her  bearing  had  dismayed  Mrs. 
Baron.  Something,  too,  in  the  cold,  steady  glance 
of  Mr.  Addis  dismayed  her.  She  turned  nervously 
toward  the  haU.  "Flora!"  she  caUed.  "Flora!" 
And  she  followed  her  daughter  up  the  broad  stair- 
way. 

They  had  all  forgotten  Bonnie  May.  When  she 
had  summoned  Mrs.  Baron,  at  the  behest  of  Flora 

167 


Bonnie  May 

and  Mr.  Addis,  she  had  returned,  quietly  and  un- 
observed, and  had  taken  her  place  inconspicuously 
in  a  far  comer  of  the  room. 

Now  she  came  forward,  a  light  of  eagerness  in 
her  eyes. 

"That  was  a  great  speech  you  made,"  she  said. 

Mr.  Addis,  gazing  toward  the  empty  staircase, 
seemed  unaware  of  her  presence. 

"It  was  good  stuff,"  she  added,  and  then  Mr. 
Addis  turned  to  her  with  an  almost  unseeing  glance. 

"I  think  it's  time  for  you  to  go  off-stage,"  she 
added  nervously.  "But  I'll  bet  you  one  thing. 
When  the  big  climax  comes,  you  and  Flora  will  be 
standing  in  the  middle  of  the  stage,  close  together, 
and  the  rest  will  be  grouped  about  just  to  fill  out 
the  pictiure." 

She  let  him  out  at  the  door.  She  did  not  seem 
to  be  at  all  disturbed  because  he  seemed  scarcely 
conscious  of  her  presence. 


i68 


CHAPTER  XV 
A  QUESTION  OF  RECONSTRUCTION 

In  keeping  with  the  Baron  manner,  no  mention  of 
Mr.  Addis's  name  was  made  openly  in  the  mansion 
the  next  morning.  The  normal  atmosphere  was 
changed  only  by  a  more  pronounced  reticence, 
which  doubtless  hid  varying  degrees  of  sullenness 
or  resentment.  But  there  was  no  lack  of  pohteness. 
On  the  contrary,  there  was  an  excess  of  it. 

Of  course  it  was  realized  that  Mr.  Addis  had  not 
been  finally  disposed  of.  Mrs.  Baron's  idea  was  to 
await  developments — ^and  so  was  Flora's. 

Only  Bonnie  May  violated  the  weU-established 
tradition  of  the  household. 

Early  in  the  morning  she  encountered  Flora,  and 
made  occasion  to  engage  her  in  a  brief  conversa- 
tion. Flora  was  planning  to  go  out  with  the  Mc- 
Kelvey  girls  after  breakfast,  and  she  held  in  her 
hands  the  green-and-sHver  tailored  skirt  when 
Bonnie  May  came  upon  her.  She  was  regarding 
it  with  the  care  and  heartache  of  a  young  woman 
in  love  with  pretty  things  who  has  very  few  of 
them,  and  she  did  not  seem  quite  responsive  when 
the  child  began  a  somewhat  extraordinary  com- 
mentary. 

169 


Bonnie  May 

She  scarcely  heeded  Bonnie  May's  introductory 
words,  but  she  did  begin  to  pay  attention  when 
she  heard  this: 

"Of  course  I  know  I've  got  nothing  to  do  with 
the  giving  out  of  parts,  but  if  I  had,  he'd  strike  me 
just  right  for  the  role  of  the  husband." 

Miss  Baron  flushed.  She  knew  just  whom  the 
child  meant,  but  she  felt  that  she  must  pretend 
to  some  measure  of  doubt. 

"What  in  the  world  are  you  talking  about?" 
she  asked.  Her  faint  smile  robbed  her  words  of 
sharpness. 

"I  think  he's  just  the  kind  that  would  look  well 
to  the  people  in  the  gaUery,  and  to  the  people  down 
in  the  parquet,  too.    Mr.  Addis." 

Flora  sat  down  in  an  aimless  fashion,  holding  the 
green-and-silver  skirt  across  her  knees. 

"Do  you  think,"  she  asked  meditatively,  "that 
he  would  look  well — ^anywhere  ?  " 

"Do  you  mean,  do  I  think  he  would  look — 
ridic'lous,  anywhere?" 

Miss  Baron  leaned  back  and  looked  with  a  sort 
of  mournful  joyousness  at  the  ceiling.  "You  do 
say  such  amazing  things!"  she  declared.  "To  use 
your  word.  You  don't  think  he  would  look  ridicu- 
lous anywhere?" 

"Never  in  the  world!"  was  the  emphatic  re- 
sponse. 

"But  you  know  he  isn't  at  all  like — ^well,  like  the 
leading  men  in  plays,  for  example." 

170 


A  Question  of  Reconstruction 

"You  mean  what  they  call  matinee  idols?" 

"Well,  he's  entirely  different  from  them,  isn't 
he?" 

"But  you  wouldn't  want  him  to  be  like  them, 
would  you?" 

Miss  Baron  shook  her  head  slowly.  "No,  / 
wouldn't.  .  .  ." 

"I'll  tell  you  how  he  strikes  me,"  said  Bonnie 
May.  "If  he  came  on  the  stage,  the  audience  would 
think  it  was  the  business  manager,  come  to  make  an 
announcement.  You  know  the  business  manager  is 
the  man  who  has  the  money — sometimes;  who  pays 
the  hotel  biUs  and  J&nds  out  about  train-time,  and 
sees  that  your  baggage  is  there  ahead  of  you  when 
you  get  to  the  end  of  a  trip.  He's  the  real  man 
with  the  show.  These  fellas  that  look  like  fash- 
ion-plates are  all  right  as  far  as  they  go.  But  you 
know  once  in  a  while  the  walking  gets  bad,  and 
then  the  wise  guys  are  the  ones  that  stand  in  with 
the  business  manager." 

She  went  away,  nodding  with  emphasis,  and 
left  Miss  Baron  to  complete  her  toilet. 

Beyond  this  brief  interchange  of  words  not  a 
word  about  Mr.  Addis  had  been  spoken  when 
Baron,  immediately  after  breakfast,  went  away  in 
response  to  a  telephone  call  from  a  newspaper 
office.  The  Sunday  editor  had  an  idea  for  a  special 
article  and,  as  it  turned  out,  Baron  was  employed 
down-town  all  day. 

There  was  a  "story"  about  an  exhibit  in  one  of 
171 


Bonnie  May 

the  art-galleries  to  write,  and  this  he  had  done  with 
one  of  those  intervals  of  ardor  which  characterized 
him. 

He  had  also  called  on  Thornburg.  He  wanted 
to  know  how  the  mysterious  quest  of  Bonnie  May 
was  progressing,  and  if  the  manager  had  learned 
anything  as  a  result  of  his  response  to  the  advertise- 
ment in  the  Times. 

But  Thornburg  had  no  information  for  him. 
He  had  replied  to  the  advertisement  according  to 
his  promise,  he  said,  but  he  had  received  no  re- 
sponse. He  admitted  quite  frankly  that  he  had 
permitted  two  days  to  pass  before  doing  this.  He 
had  been  unusually  busy.  But  he  had  attended  to 
the  matter  as  soon  as  he  had  been  able  to  find 
time — ^and  nothing  had  come  of  it. 

However,  as  Baron  was  leaving  the  manager's 
office,  Thornburg  called  him  back.  "By  the  way," 
he  said,  "it  is  possible  Mrs.  Thornburg  may  have 
something  interesting  to  tell  you.  I  just  happened 
to  remember  that  she  asked  me  to  invite  you  up 
to  the  house  when  I  saw  you.  I  beheve  she  men- 
tioned Bonnie  May.  Suppose  you  drop  around  as 
soon  as  it's  convenient." 

On  his  way  home  that  afternoon,  Baron  thought 
of  the  manager's  message  and  his  manner,  and 
again  he  became  suspicious.  He  couldn't  help  be- 
lieving that  Thornburg  knew  more  than  he  ad- 
mitted. But  then,  he  concluded,  perhaps  he  was 
only  innocently  plotting  to  get  possession  of  the 

172 


A  Question  of  Reconstruction 

child  for  whom  there  now  appeared  to  be  no  lawful 
claimant. 

When  he  reached  home  his  mother  was  the  first 
person  he  encountered,  and  he  surmised  by  her 
manner  that  this  circumstance  was  a  result  of  her 
own  design  and  management. 

"Anything  wrong,  mother?"  he  asked.  He  had 
visions  of  kidnappers  watching  the  house  from 
hidden  points  of  vantage. 

Mrs.  Baron  led  the  way  into  the  dining-room  and 
took  a  seat  in  the  bay  window  overlooking  the 
anaemic  grass-plot. 

"Yes — entirely  wrong,"  she  responded.  "Do  you 
know  what  this  country  had  after  the  Civil  War?" 

"Of  course.    It  had  peace." 

"It  had  reconstruction." 

"Oh! — reconstruction.    Certainly." 

''That's  what  I'm  going  to  have  in  this  house- 
hold." 

"All  in  favor  of  reconstruction  wiU  signify — " 
began  Baron  Hghtly.  But  his  mother  interrupted 
him  quite  sharply. 

"I  don't  intend  to  be  annoyed  any  more  by 
that  man  Addis,"  she  declared,  a  flush  mounting 
to  her  cheeks. 

"Oh,"  said  Baron,  for  the  first  time  comprehend- 
ing. "And  my  part  in  the — the  new  order  of  things 
is  to  begin  snubbing  him?" 

"I  don't  care  if  you  look  at  it  in  that  way.  I 
don't  intend  he  shall  come  here.'* 

173 


Bonnie  May 

Baron  looked  at  her  thoughtfully.  "My  diffi- 
culty is,"  he  said,  "that  I  understand  your  posi- 
tion, and  his,  too.  And  Flora's.  Addis  is  an  aw- 
fully decent  chap.  I  think  you  don't  look  at  him 
quite  right.  He's  got  lots  of  friends  of  the  right 
sort.  Men  friends.  He  doesn't  go  in  for  the — oh, 
the  ladylike  things.  But  he  belongs  to  the  hunt- 
ing clubs,  and  some  of  the  best  commercial  clubs, 
and — ^well,  I'm  sure  he's  every  inch  a  man." 

"So  far  as  we're  concerned,  he's  every  inch  a 
grocer." 

Baron  winced.  "Oh,  mother!"  he  protested, 
and  after  an  interval  of  silence,  "mother!"  he  ex- 
claimed, "what  are  we?  What  am  I?  A  loafer, 
living  off  a  woman's  money;  depending  on  my 
parents;  having  no  prospects  of  my  own  making. 
There  are  times  when  I  wish  I  had  learned  how 
to  be  a  grocer,  or  a  blacksmith,  or  a  carpenter,  or 
anything  that  would  give  me  a  place  I  could  put 
a  label  on.  Honestly,  I  don't  see  that  Tve  got 
anything  to  make  me  look  down  on — on  any- 
body." 

Mrs.  Baron  was  not  at  all  impressed  by  this. 
"I  won't  answer  that  sort  of  nonsense,"  she  said. 
"And  as  for  Mr.  Addis " 

The  door  into  the  kitchen  opened  and  Mrs. 
Shepard  stood  revealed.  Her  brow  was  furrowed. 
She  looked  beseechingly  at  Mrs.  Baron. 

"Yes,  right  away,"  said  Mrs.  Baron,  rising.  But 
she  paused  and  looked  at  her  son  again.    "And 

174 


A  Question  of  Reconstruction 

that — that  unruly  child  who's  been  letting  him  in. 
She's  to  be  taken  in  hand,  too." 

"Yes,  mother?" 

"As  long  as  she's  here  you  and  Flora  have  got  to 
quit  treating  her  as  if  she  were  a — a  fairy  queen. 
It's  absurd.  She's  got  to  be  restrained  and — and 
enlightened." 

"I'm  quite  willing  to  do  my  part.  The  trouble 
is  I've  been  too  busy  being  enlightened  by  her  to 
do  very  much  enhghtening  on  my  part." 

"Well,  she  hasn't  enhghtened  me  at  all.  And 
I'n  be  able  to  attend  to  her  without  a  great  deal  of 
aid.  She's  got  to  get  down  out  of  the  clouds,  to 
real  things." 

"She  doesn't  seem  to  fit  in  with  our  kind  of 
reahties,  does  she?"  he  conceded.  And  then  he 
smiled.  "If  it  were  only  right  to  regard  even  chil- 
dren simply  as  human  beings!  They  have  to  be 
themselves  sooner  or  later.  If  it  were  only  possible 
to  let  them  develop  along  that  line  from  the 
start!" 

But  the  kitchen  door  had  been  opened  by  Mrs. 
Shepard  again — this  time  timorously  and  incom- 
pletely— and  Mrs.  Baron  was  gone. 

Baron  climbed  two  flights  of  stairs  before  he 
came  upon  the  object  of  his  next  search.  Bonnie 
May  was  in  the  attic. 

She  was  all  eagerness  when  she  saw  him.  "Do 
you  know  what  happened  to-day?"  she  began. 

Baron    stopped    abruptly.        "Happened!"    he 

I7S 


Bonnie  May 

echoed,  imworded  speculations  again  flooding  his 
mind. 

"Oh,  nothing  wrong.  It's  just — Mrs.  Baron 
gave  me  my  first  music  lesson." 

"Music  lesson!"  he  echoed,  and  then:  "Was 
//fa/ all?" 

"Isn't  it  enough?"  She  came  close  to  him  and 
whispered:  "I'm  to  be  'cultivated.'  " 

He  frowned.  "I  don't  like  the  word.  Who  said 
so?" 

"I  wouldn't  mind  about  a  word.  Honestly,  it 
wasn't  so  bad.  I've  often  thought  I'd  like  to  be 
able  to  hit  a  few  high  spots  on  the  piano.  Some- 
times a  little  thing  like  that  means  ever  so  much 
to  you.  Imagine  yourseK  having  the  lead  in  a  play 
with  a  lot  of  love-making  in  it.  You  have  a  line 
like  this — to  the  leading  man:  'You'll  be  like  all 
the  rest.  You'll  forget  me  among  all  those  gay 
scenes.'  Don't  you  see  how  much  it  helps  if  you 
can  say  it  sitting  on  a  piano-stool,  and  winding  up 
by  turning  to  the  keyboard  and  trifling  with  it 
softly?  You  don't  need  to  play  well.  It  wouldn't 
do  to  play  really  well.  Just  a  little,  you  know. 
Absent-mindedly,  with  your  head  down.  That's 
what  I  want  to  be  able  to  do." 

Baron  had  pulled  a  chair  close  to  the  window. 
"And  so  you  took  a  music  lesson?"  he  asked.  He 
was  recalling  the  serenely  inefficient  manner  in 
which  his  mother  played  certain  familiar  hymns. 
It  did  not  occur  to  him  that  she  would  attempt  to 

176 


A  Question  of  Reconstruction 

teach  Bonnie  May  anything  but  this  class  of  music. 
Indeed,  he  felt  sure  she  would  not  have  been  able 
to  recall  any  other  kind.  "I'm  glad  you  don't  ob- 
ject to  it,"  he  said.  Presently  he  added,  without 
very  much  interest  in  the  subject:  "After  all,  some 
of  the  old  hynms  are  very  pretty." 

"Yes;  but  you  know  I'm  not  going  to  play 
h3nims." 

"Oh,  you're  not!  What  does  mother  expect  to 
teach  you,  then?" 

"At  first  she  thought  hymns  would  do;  but 
when  I  explained  to  her  that  I  wouldn't  care  to 
play  them  she  said  we  could  take  up  something 
else." 

Baron  regarded  her  steadily.  She  was  obviously 
withholding  something.  "Bonnie  May ! "  he  remon- 
strated. "You  didn't  have  another  disagreement, 
did  you?" 

"It  was  more  like  an  argument — and  I  must 
say  she  behaved  beautifully." 

"And  did  you  behave  'beautifully,'  too?" 

She  had  drawn  her  chair  close  to  the  window  and 
was  looking  out,  so  that  he  saw,  chiefly,  a  small 
shoulder  and  a  profile  which  was  quite  eloquent  of 
independence  and  coiu-age.  "Yes,  I  think  I  did. 
Of  course,  it  was  harder  for  me  than  for  her.  You 
see,  I  had  to  be  It,  as  the  saying  is.  Yes,  that's 
how  to  express  it.  She  had  framed  the  game  up, 
and  I  had  to  be  It." 

"What — ^what  really  happened?" 

177 


Bonnie  May 

"She  began  in  that  innocent  way  of  hers.  She 
thought  a  Uttle  knowledge  of  music  would  be  good 
for  me.  I  said  yes  to  that.  Yes,  she  went  on,  it 
would  be  quite  proper  for  me  to  learn  to  play  some 
of  the  simpler  hymns.    When  she  said  'hynms' " 

She  sat  quite  askew  and  laughed,  and  when 
Baron  made  no  response  at  all  she  became  uneasy. 
"You  know  you've  got  to  protect  yourself,"  she 
insisted  defiantly. 

"Very  well;  and  then  what?" 

"I  told  her  it  was  so  good  of  her  to  be  willing 
to  teach  me,  but  that — ^well,  I  told  her  hymns 
wouldn't  do." 

"Why  wouldn't  they  do?    They're  music." 

"It's  like  I  told  her.  Hymns  are  all  well  enough 
for  persons  who  don't  understand  very  well — like 
raised  letters  for  the  blind.  But  when  Mrs.  Shepard 
lets  me  set  the  table,  how  would  it  sound  if  I  kept 
saying:  'I'm  helping  Mrs.  Shepard!  I'm  helping 
Mrs.  Shepard!'  She  might  be  too  poHte  to  say 
anything,  but  she'd  be  thinking:  'The  gabby  Kttle 
thing,  why  don't  she  just  do  it  and  let  it  go  at  that  ?' 
On  the  other  hand,  if  I  just  did  the  best  I  could 
without  making  out  that  I  was  the  whole  show, 
she'd  be  apt  to  say:  'Bless  her  heart,  she's  really 
helping.'  I  think  singing  hymns  is  about  the  same 
thing.  It's  as  if  you  kept  saying : '  I'm  praising  God ! 
I'm  praising  God!'  It  would  be — oh,  bad  taste. 
But  if  you  sang  'Annie  Laurie,'  or  something  like 
that,  you  can  imagine  they'd  bend  their  ears  up 

178 


A  Question  of  Reconstruction 

in  the  skies — ^if  they  can  hear  that  far — and  say: 
*  Isn't  that  nice?'  That's  what  I  said  to  Mrs. 
Baron.    Some  spiel,  wasn't  it?" 

Baron  was  glad  that  she  turned  to  him  for  only 
the  briefest  scrutiny. 

"And — ^what  did  mother  say?"  he  wanted  to 
know. 

"I  thought  she  was  going  to  have  the  curtain 
let  down  for  a  minute.  She  looked  so  funny.  But 
you  see,  she  knew  I  was  right.  Anybody  could 
see  that.  She  stared  at  me.  And  I  stared  at  her, 
too — only  mine  was  different.  Mine  was  what  you 
call  a  baby  stare.  Innocent,  you  know."  She 
turned  to  him  again,  and  something  ui  his  eyes 
checked  her.  "Oh,  I  know  how  that  sounded  to 
you,"  she  said  with  quick  remonstrance.  "You 
never  put  things  like  that  into  words.  But  you 
know  very  well  everybody  does  have  special  ways 
of  looking  when  they  want  to.  As  if  they  didn't 
understand,  or  as  if  they  were  surprised — or  weren't. 
You  have  to  do  things  like  that.  That's  all  I 
meant." 

"I — think  I  understand,"  said  Baron. 

They  remained  silent  for  a  time,  and  through 
Baron's  mind  a  single  phrase  kept  nmning:  "Like 
raised  letters  for  the  blind."  Wasn't  cynicism, 
wherever  it  existed,  merely  a  protest  by  people  of 
refined  taste  against  the  inartistic  forms  which  good- 
ness often  assumed?  And  hadn't  he  and  his  family 
always  paid  far  too  little  heed  to  the  golden  legends 

179 


Bonnie  May 

of  life,  and  too  much  to  the  desire  to  have  them  in 
*' raised  letters"? 

He  was  aroused  by  the  voice  of  his  companion; 
by  her  voice  and  by  the  eagerness  with  which  she 
gazed  at  a  little  drama  which  was  being  enacted 
down  in  the  street.  An  enormous,  red-faced  beer- 
driver  had  stopped  his  dray  at  the  curb  to  chat 
with  a  ruddy-cheeked,  buxom  girl  with  glossy  black 
hair,  who  was  laughing  up  into  his  face.  The  two 
powerful  brewery  horses  stood  patiently  at  rest, 
their  eyes  harboring  the  placid  expression  of  the 
weary  draft-horse  that  comes  immediately  when 
a  stop  is  made. 

"Aren't  they  happy?"  commented  Bonnie  May, 
speaking  as  if  from  the  indulgent  summit  of  great 
age. 

"I  don't  know,"  Baron  argued.  "I  shouldn't 
think  it  very  probable." 

"But  can't  you  see  that  they  are?" 

"Because  they  are  laughing?" 

"That — and  their  eyes.  The  way  they  are  look- 
ing at  each  other  is  just  as  if  they  were  patting 
each  other  on  the  cheeks — ^now,  isn't  it?  I  think 
they  are  both  just  beautiful.  They  look  as  if  they 
were  quite  happy,  and  didn't  care  to  be  anything 
else." 

"Nonsense!  Who  ever  heard  of  a  beer-driver 
being  beautiful?  And  such  an  enormous  creature, 
and  the  kind  of  work  he  does,  and — ^and  such 
clothes!" 

i8o 


'They  look  as  if  they  were  quite  happy — and  didn't  care 
to  be  anything  else." 


A  Question  of  Reconstruction 

Her  brows  contracted.  "Aren't  you  prejudiced 
against  him  just  because — ^well,  maybe,  because  of 
the  kind  of  work  he  does?" 

"I  think  maybe  I  am.  I  should  think  anybody 
might  be." 

"I  see.  You  was  thinking  something  ugly  about 
him — so,  of  course,  he  wouldn't  look  nice  to  you. 
You  see,  I  wasn't.  I  think  maybe  he  does  that 
kind  of  work  because  he  was  never  taught  to  do 
anything  else.  If  your  work  isn't  lovely,  I  think 
you  deserve  all  the  more  credit,  if  you  can  be  glad 
while  you're  doing  it." 

"But  don't  you  see — ^people  choose  their  work — 
they  choose  to  be  what  they  are." 

"NotataU.    I  didn't.    Did  you?" 

"And  just  see  how — ^how  loud  he  is!  And  notice 
the  color  of  his  face  and  hands ! " 

"Yes,"  she  said.  She  continued  to  look  crit- 
ically, and  her  eyes  were  filled  with  joy  when  the 
driver  suddenly  leaned  back  and  laughed  imtil  the 
sound  reached  them  above  the  scores  of  other 
noises.  "That's  because  he  laughs  so  much,  and 
is  out  in  the  sun  and  the  weather  most  of  the  time. 
I  think  he's  lovely — ^yes,  I  do.  For  my  part,  I'd 
like  to  get  up  on  the  seat  and  ride  with  him.  I'll 
bet  he  would  take  good  care  of  you.  And  you  can 
see  that  nice  girl  would,  too." 

"With  a  beer-driver!"  exclaimed  Baron,  really 
amazed. 

She  regarded  him  serenely.  "Oh,  a  beer-driver," 
i8i 


Bonnie  May 

she  said.  "I  wouldn't  think  about  that  part  of  it 
at  all.  I  would  have  to  know  something  about  him 
that  really  counted,  if  it  came  down  to  an  argu- 
ment. You're  only  thinking  of  his  make-up.  And, 
my  goodness!  I've  seen  many  a  Simon  Legree  go 
into  his  dressing-room  and  change  his  clothes — ^and 
come  out  the  nicest  sort  of  a  fellow.  I've  got  a 
himch  that  if  there  is — "  She  paused,  shamefaced, 
and  then  continued:  "If  there  is  somebody  up  in 
the  skies  keeping  tab — somebody _^managing  the 
big  stage — the  whole  world,  I  mean — ^he  knows  just 
what  we  are,  or  ought  to  be,  if  the  make-up  wasn't 
there  to  make  us  seem  ugly  and  mean  and  hateful." 

"But,  look  here!  That  isn't  a  make-up  that 
fellow  down  there  has  on;  it's  himself!" 

"Not  at  all!  What's  the  difference  whether  it  is 
the  wardrobe  mistress  that  hands  you  what  you 
have  to  wear,  or — or  just  accident?  I  mean  the 
way  you  happen  to  get  started,  and  whatever  it  is 
you  have  to  do.    You  know  what  I  mean." 

"I  know  what  you  mean,  well  enough.  But  what 
/  mean  is,  why  should  you  suppose  that  chap 
down  there  didn't  get  just  what  he  studied  for — 
^what  he  fitted  himself  for?" 

"Because  they  give  you  a  part  and  say:  'This 
is  your  part,'  and  that's  all  there  is  to  it." 

"Oh,  on  the  stage — ^possibly.  But  what  can  you 
see  in  that  fellow  that  makes  you  think  there's 
anything  to  him — that  he'd  be  trustworthy,  for 
example?" 

182 


A  Question  of  Reconstruction 

She  leaned  forward,  wholly  alert.  "It's  easy," 
she  declared.  "  See  how  he  sits,  with  his  feet  square 
on  the  dashboard,  and  with  his  head  held  up  high 
that  way.    That  means  he  knows  what  he's  about." 

Baron  felt  himself  getting  red  in  the  face.  He 
remembered  his  habit  of  sitting  with  his  legs  tangled 
up  when  he  was  at  his  ease.  Quite  cautiously  he 
got  himself  into  a  more  purposeful  attitude.  "Any- 
thing else?"  he  asked. 

The  beer-driver  was  now  driving  away. 

"Yes.  Look  at  the  way  he  is  holding  those 
reins — ^nice  and  straight  and  firm.  The  horses 
know  he's  there,  all  right.  They  trust  him.  They 
know  him.  Look  at  him  now  I  It's  just  as  if  he 
were  saying  to  them:  'Take  it  easy,  old  fellows, 
we're  all  here  together.'" 

Baron  leaned  forward  and  watched  the  disap- 
pearing dray.  Yes,  there  was  a  certain  method  in 
the  man's  way  of  holding  the  reins,  and  in  his 
whole  bearing,  which  suggested  just  what  the  child 
had  put  into  words. 

He  leaned  back  and  clasped  his  hands  behind 
his  head  and  snuled. 

"What  is  it?"  asked  Bonnie  May  anxiously. 

"I'm  afraid  I  couldn't  explain  to  you.  I  was 
just  thinking  about — about  certain  forms  of  recon- 
struction." 


183 


CHAPTER  XVI 

MRS.  THORNBURG  REVEALS  A  SECRET 

Baron  shook  his  head  slowly.  He  had  been  think- 
ing about  that  advertisement  in  the  Times  which 
Thomburg  had  answered  without  any  result. 

"Strange,"  he  mused.  "I  won't  beheve  but  that 
somebody  is  looking  for  her — somewhere.  Chil- 
dren like  that  are  not  dropped  down  and  deserted 
like  superfluous  kittens  or  puppies.  There's  some- 
thing wrong  somewhere." 

Then  he  remembered  that  Mrs.  Thornburg  wished 
to  see  him;  that,  according  to  Thornburg,  she  had 
"mentioned  Bonnie  May." 

Possibly  she  knew  something.  At  any  rate, 
Baron  felt  that  he  ought  to  call  on  her.  It  was 
just  after  the  dinner-hour — of  the  day  on  which 
Mrs.  Baron  had  announced  her  poHcy  of  recon- 
struction— and  the  evening  was  flinging  a  chal- 
lenge to  all  mankind  to  get  out  of  doors  and  enjoy 
the  spring  air. 

He  took  up  his  stick  and  hat  and  left  the  house. 

He  foimd  Mrs.  Thomburg  sadly  changed  since 
he  had  seen  her  last  She  was  unmistakably  very 
ill,  though  the  only  symptoms  revealed  to  Baron's 

184 


Mrs.  Thornburg  Reveals  a  Secret 

inexpert  eye  were  a  pathetic  thinness  and  pallor 
and  a  profound  lassitude. 

She  was  alone,  Thornburg  having  just  gone  out. 

"It  was  good  of  you  to  come,"  she  said  when 
Baron  entered.  She  spoke  as  if  she  had  been  ex- 
pecting him.  And  without  circimalocution  she  con- 
tinued: "I  wanted  to  talk  to  you  about  the  little 
girl.  You  haven't  let  anybody  have  her,  have 
you?" 

"No,"  repHed  Baron.  Then  he  added  lightly: 
"I  think  we've  changed  our  minds  about  letting 
her  go.  It  seems  likely  now  that  we'll  keep  her 
with  us  indefinitely." 

He  was  glad  that  her  glance  rested  upon  her 
thin,  clasped  hands.  He  could  note  the  effect  of 
his  statement  with  a  steady  scrutiny  which  need 
cause  him  no  compunction. 

To  his  surprise  she  seemed  quite  pleased.  "It 
makes  me  glad  to  know  that  she  is  to  be  with  nice 
people,"  she  said,  lifting  to  him  now  a  softly  grate- 
ful glance.  She  explained:  "You  see,  I'm  sure 
I'm  too  ill  to  have  her  now,  even  if.  .  .  ."  Her 
lips  trembled  and  her  eyes  filled. 

"But  you'll  be  better,"  said  Baron,  reading  her 
thought.  Clearly  she  had  despaired  of  ever  being 
any  better.  "When  you're  able  to  have  her,  she'll 
be  so  happy  to  visit  you.  I  mean  Bonnie  May. 
She's  a  wonderfully  sociable  little  creature.  If 
she  were  invited  to  come  to  see  you  she  would  be 
delighted.    Attentions  like  that — such  as  you  would 

i8S 


Bonnie  May 

pay  to  grown  people — have  a  wonderful  effect 
upon  her." 

"Yes.  .  .  .  And  of  course  some  day  she  will  be 
coming  here  to  stay." 

"You  mean — "  Baron  was  surprised  that  his 
suggestion  had  been  received  with  a  dully  uttered, 
enigmatic  remark,  rather  than  gratitude  or  eager- 
ness. 

"You  don't  know  what  I  mean  by  that?"  There 
was  regret  in  her  tone,  reluctance  in  her  glance — 
as  if  she  knew  he  was  not  dealing  honestly  and 
frankly  by  her. 

"No,  truly,  I  don't." 

"Ah,  well.  .  .  .  But  I  wanted  to  tell  you  why 
I  was  so  eager  to  have  her  when  you  called  before. 
You  see,  I  wanted  to — to  atone.  .  .  ." 

She  sat  listlessly,  lost  in  troubled  memories,  and 
Baron  waited. 

"Mr.  Thornburg  came  to  me  one  time,  in  the  one 
moment  of  his  greatest  need,  and  asked  me  to  help 
him.    And  I  failed  him." 

She  leaned  back  and  closed  her  eyes  for  a  mo- 
ment, and  Baron  thought  how  out  of  harmony  she 
was:  the  ailing  woman  whose  whole  being  was  in 
a  minor  key,  amid  surroundings  which  suggested 
only  sturdiness  and  well-being. 

"He  was  always  generous  toward  me,  and  pa- 
tient. He  was  always  giving,  giving,  and  never 
asking.  I  think  I  got  used  to  that  and  just  took 
it  for  granted.    And  then  one  day  he  came  home, 

i86 


Mrs.  Thornburg  Reveals  a  Secret 

excited,  as  happy  as  a  child  .  .  .  and  asked  me.  .  .  . 
It  was  such  a  httle  thing  .  .  .  and  I  refused. 

"You  know,  he  had  been  married  when  I  first 
met  him.  An  actress.  It  didn't  last  long.  She 
got  tired  of  the  life  and  wanted  to  go  back  to  the 
stage.  I  think  she  appealed  to  his  generosity.  It 
would  have  been  easy  to  do  that.  At  any  rate, 
he  allowed  her  to  go  away  and  take  their  httle  girl. 
I  can't  understand  how  he  brought  himself  to  let 
the  httle  daughter  go,  too.  I  have  an  idea  he  was 
so  troubled  because  she  wanted  to  go  that  he  didn't 
reahze  how  much  the  child  meant  to  him,  or  would 
come  to  mean.  She  was  only  a  year  old  then.  I 
never  blamed  him  for  that  episode  in  his  life.  I 
just  concluded  that  the  woman  was  worthless.  And 
when  I  married  him  we  didn't  speak  of  his  other 
marriage — ^nothing  in  connection  with  it.  It  was 
just  as  if  it  hadn't  happened.  Then,  after  a  year, 
or  about  a  year,  he — ^he  made  the  one  request  of 
me.  The  mother  had  offered  to  give  him  the  little 
girl.  He  wanted  to  bring  her  to  me,  to  have  her  in 
our  home. 

"And  that  made  me  jealous  and  imhappy.  I 
can't  explain  ...  or  defend  myself.  I  could 
scarcely  answer  him  when  he  spoke  about  it.  And 
when  I  didn't  answer  he  looked  at  me,  and  after 
a  Httle  a  strange  expression  came  into  his  eyes. 
He  was  chilled  and  bewildered.  He  had  been  so 
happy.  He  couldn't  understand.  He  just  gave 
it  up,  and  the  next  day  he  was  trying  to  pretend 

187 


Bonnie  May 

that  nothing  had  come  between  us;  that  I  hadn't 
been  ungracious  and  cruel. 

"You  see,  I  was  thinking  of  her  child,  and  he  was 
thinking  of  his  own.  Mine  was  the  woman's — the 
narrow — ^point  of  view,  and  his  was  the  father's. 
Maybe  you  can  understand  a  little  of  what  I  felt.  I 
couldn't  have  the  child  here  in  the  house,  while 
its  own  mother.  ...  It  would  have  been  like 
giving  her  a  place  in  our  home — the  woman,  I 
mean.  You  can't  really  separate  people  by  putting 
their  bodies  in  different  places.  You  see  what  I 
mean  ?  " 

"Yes,''  assented  Baron,  "I  think  I  see  quite 
clearly." 

"And  I  was  sure  she  was  a  bad  woman.  And  I 
felt  that  if  her  child  were  in  the  house,  her — her 
real  self  would  be  here,  too.  Her  influence,  I  mean. 
Bodies  are  not  everything.  Sometimes  they're 
even  the  least  things  of  all.  I  was  afraid  that  other 
woman's  very  presence  would  be  here  among  us 
on  the  most  sacred  occasions:  at  bedtime,  to  see 
if  her  child  were  covered  up,  and  in  the  early  hours 
of  Christmas  morning,  jealously  looking  to  see  what 
we'd  given  her,  and  jealous  of  us,  because  we  were 
fond  of  her.  She  would  be  a  real  influence  in  the 
house.    It  couldn't  be  helped." 

"But  a  bad  woman.  .  .  .  Surely  a  bad  woman 
would  forget,"  suggested  Baron. 

"Well,  not  our  kind  of  a  woman,  anyway.  How 
could  she  have  deserted  a  man  who  was  good  to 

i88 


Mrs.  Thornburg  Reveals  a  Secret 

her?  And  how  could  she  consent  to  give  up  her 
child  afterward?  It  might  be  right  for  her  to 
leave  her  husband;  but  for  a  mother  to  give  up  a 
little  daughter.  .  .  .  No,  I  couldn't  think  of  hav- 
ing here  in  our  home  a  link  to  bind  us  with  a  woman 
like  that — a  hfe  out  in  the  unknown,  on  the  streets 
that  are  strange  to  us,  that  are  strange  to  all  faith- 
ful, happy  people. 

"And  then  when  it  was  too  late  I  began  to  see 
his  side  of  it.  He  was  the  father  just  as  much  as 
she  was  the  mother.  She  was  his  child  as  much  as 
hers — more,  if  he  loved  her  more.  And  I  began  to 
realize  what  it  must  be  to  a  father  to  have  his  Httle 
daughter  away  from  him,  perhaps  not  loved  and 
provided  for,  possibly  facing  an  evil  future.  Oh, 
the  night  that  thought  came  to  me!  And  always 
he  was  so  kind  to  me,  and  patient.  He  did  not 
speak  of  his  daughter  again.  And  I  waited.  .  .  . 
I  knew  he  would  speak  again  some  day,  and  I 
wanted  to  grow  strong  enough  to  say  to  him 
honestly:  'Ah,  do  bring  her,  and  she  shall  have 
love  here,  here  in  her  own  home'  ..." 

She  lifted  her  hands  to  her  cheeks  and  closed  her 
eyes.  It  was  as  if  she  must  shut  out  some  of  the 
impressions  which  crowded  into  her  mind. 

Baron  waited  until  a  measure  of  calm  came  upon 
her.    "And — he  never  did?" 

She  opened  her  eyes  and  regarded  him  inquiringly. 

"I  mean,  he  never  spoke  of  her  again?" 

She  regarded  him  with  a  smouldering  look  in  her 
189 


Bonnie  May- 
eyes.    Then  she  leaned  forward,  her  hands  gripping 
the  arms  of  her  chair.     "I  honestly  beheve  you 
don't  know ! "  she  whispered. 

And  in  an  instant  she  had  taken  from  a  little 
box  on  the  table  near  which  she  sat  an  envelope. 
She  drew  from  it  a  single  sheet  and  passed  it  to 
Baron. 

He  turned  a  little,  so  that  the  light  from  the 
table  fell  upon  it  and  read: 

"Do  he  good  to  the  little  girl  your  husband  has  brought 
to  you.    You  ought  to  be,  because  he  is  her  father. ^^ 

There  was  no  name.  Baron  handed  the  sheet 
back  to  her.  He  was  thinking  hard.  "Who  could 
have  written  it?"  he  asked. 

"Of  course  you  realize  that  I  don't  hnow,^^  she 
replied.    "Do  you  mean  to  ask  me  what  I  think?" 

"WeU,  what  do  you  think?" 

"I  think  her  mother  wrote  it.  I  think  she  must 
have  lost  track  of  the  child,  and  concluded  that 
Mr.  Thombmrg  had  taken  her.  I  think  she  must 
have  known  of  my — ^my  jealousy  on  that  other 
occasion.  I  think  she  wrote  this  note  hoping  that 
I  would  refuse  to  have  the  child  in  the  house  if  I 
knew  who  she  was.  It  seems  plain  that  she  wants 
her  now." 

Baron  was  examining  the  date  of  the  postmark 
on  the  envelope.  She  saw  that  furrows  were  gather- 
ing on  his  forehead. 

She  explained:  "It  came  some  time  ago.  I  had 
it  with  me  here  when  you  called  that  first  time." 

190 


Mrs.  Thornburg  Reveals  a  Secret 

"Oh!"  exclaimed  Baron.  "And  you  knew, 
then " 

"Yes,  I  knew  then." 

"But  you  haven't  .  .  .  Mr.  Thomburg.  .  .  ." 

"I  didn't  show  him  this.  He  doesn't  know. 
Surely  you  can  understand.  He  has  acted  a  he, 
in  trying  to  get  the  Httle  girl  into  the  house  with- 
out telling  me  about  her.  And  I  can't  blame  him 
for  that,  after  what  happened  that  other  time. 
But  I  can't  bear  to  let  him  know  that — ^that  I 
know." 

"But  don't  you  see,  if  Bonnie  May  is  really  his 
daughter,  and  if  he  weren't  afraid  to  tell  you  so, 
he  could  bring  her  here  without  any  further  hin- 
derance!" 

"No,  he  couldn't.  Not  if  the  mother  wants 
her." 

Baron  arose.  "After  all,  it's  largely  guesswork — 
conclusions  reached  in  the  dark,"  he  said.  "You've 
received  an  anonymous  note.  That's  all  the  foimda- 
tion  you  have  for  what  you've  told  me.  And  people 
who  write  anonymous  letters.  ..." 

He  reflected  dubiously,  and  then  he  came  to  a 
decision. 

"I've  reason  to  believe,"  he  said,  "that  there  is 
good  ground  for  you  to  reject  what's  in  that  note." 

She  leaned  forward,  observing  him  intently. 

Baron  was  remembering  the  actress  who  had 
called  on  Thornburg;  the  woman  who,  almost  cer- 
tainly, was   she   who   had  taken   the   child   into 

191 


Bonnie  May 

Thomburg's  theatre.  He  was  recalling  his  question 
to  the  manager,  and  the  latter's  vehement,  prompt 
response. 

"You  mean,"  questioned  Mrs.  Thomburg,  "that 
you  don't  think  Bonnie  May  is  really  .  .  .  that 
you  don't  believe  it  was  her  mother  who  wrote 
this  note?" 

"It's  difficult  to  be  quite  sure  of  anything," 
said  Baron,  "but  I  would  stake  a  great  deal  on 
that  one  thing  being  true — that  it  wasn't  Bonnie 
May's  mother  who  wrote  that  anonymous  note." 


192 


CHAPTER  XVn 
"A  KIND  OF  DUEL" 

That  night  in  his  attic  room  Baron  arrived,  by 
perfectly  logical  reasoning,  at  two  conclusions, 
each  of  which  was  precisely  the  opposite  of  the 
other. 

The  first  of  these  conclusions  was  that  he  had  a 
perfect  right  to  shape  Bonnie  May's  future  ac- 
cording to  his  own  inclination.  The  second  was 
that  he  had  no  right  at  all  to  do  such  a  thing. 

He  arrived  at  the  first  conclusion  in  this  manner: 

He  had  made  an  honest  effort  to  locate  any 
person  or  persons  having  a  legal  and  just  claim  on 
the  child,  and  he  had  failed.  If  the  Thomburgs 
had  any  claim  upon  her,  it  was  not  his  fault  that 
they  had  bungled  their  affairs  until  they  were  un- 
willing to  make  their  claim  pubHc. 

Therefore  he  had  a  right  to  have  and  to  hold 
Bonnie  May,  and  to  regard  her,  if  not  as  his  own, 
at  least  as  a  permanent  member  of  the  house- 
hold. 

His  second  and  contrary  opinion  began  to  shape 
itself  when  he  recalled  the  picture  of  Mrs.  Thorn- 
burg,  helpless  and  despairing,  greatly  desiring  the 

193 


Bonnie  May 

presence  of  the  child  in  her  own  home  in  order  that 
she  might  complete  a  great  moral  victory  over 
herself. 

A  man  couldn't  oppose  his  claims  and  advan- 
tages to  a  need  like  that ! 

Besides — ^it  was  borne  in  upon  Baron  more  and 
more  strongly — there  was  a  very  serious  question 
as  to  the  child's  best  interests. 

She  was  an  actress,  born  and  bred,  and  some 
day  she  would  surely  hear  the  call  of  the  theatre. 
Not  in  the  near  future  certainly.  Baron  couldn't 
bear  to  associate  children  and  the  stage.  But  in 
a  few  years.  .  .  . 

And  if  she  were  ever  to  return  to  the  profession 
which  was  her  birthright,  it  was  Thornburg  she 
would  need,  and  not  the  Barons. 

Moreover,  Thornburg  was  a  wealthy  man,  and 
childless.  He  was  now  ready  to  take  the  child 
into  his  home  as  his  own.  There  could  be  only 
one  outcome  to  such  an  arrangement — an  outcome 
wholly  in  Bonnie  May's  favor. 

Therefore,  his — ^Baron's — right  to  keep  the  child 
was  of  the  shakiest  possible  nature. 

And  having  reached  these  two  conclusions,  dwell- 
ing now  upon  the  one  and  now  upon  the  other, 
Baron  extinguished  his  Hght  and  went  to  bed. 

In  the  morning  at  about  seven  o'clock,  while 
he  was  standing  before  the  glass  with  a  miHtary 
hair-brush  in  his  hand,  his  problem  was  solved 

194 


"A  Kind  of  Duel" 

for  him  in  a  flash.    He  stood  with  the  brush  sus- 
pended in  air.    A  Hght  leaped  into  his  eyes. 

"How  simple!"  he  exclaimed.  "The  very  way 
out  of  it.    The  only  way." 

At  three  o'clock  that  afternoon  he  entered  Thorn- 
burg's  private  office,  after  having  taken  the  pre- 
caution of  ascertaining  (ist)  that  Thomburg  had 
returned  from  luncheon  in  a  fairly  good  humor, 
and  (2d)  that  the  manager  was  alone. 

"You  know  I  had  a  Httle  talk  with  Mrs.  Thom- 
burg about  Bonnie  May  last  night,"  he  began, 
when  Thornburg  had  thrust  a  chair  toward  him. 
He  was  assuming  his  most  casual  manner,  primarily 
because  it  suited  his  present  piupose,  and  also 
because  he  had  not  failed  to  note  that  Thomburg's 
face  had  darkened  slightly  at  sight  of  him. 

"Yes,  I  know."  The  manager  glanced  at  his 
desk  as  if  he  were  a  very  busy  man. 

"I  felt  the  least  bit — ^up  a  tree,  as  the  fellow  said, 
after  I  had  talked  to  her,"  continued  Baron.  "You 
know  I  want  to — to  be  decent  about  things." 

"Of  course,"  agreed  the  manager,  giving  part  of 
his  attention  to  the  papers  which  were  strewn  about 
his  desk.  "And  I  suppose  the  child  is  a  good  deal 
of  a  burden " 

He  glanced  up,  and  Baron  wondered  why  a  man 
shouldn't  be  able  to  keep  the  hght  of  triumph  out 
of  his  eyes  when  he  really  tried  to. 

"Not  at  all!"  he  interrupted  blandly. 

195 


Bonnie  May 


" or  that  you  are  sure  she  will  be,  when  the 

novelty  of  having  her  about  wears  off."  He  squared 
about  sharply,  with  the  air  of  a  man  who  means 
to  do  something  handsome.  "I'm  still  ready  to 
take  her,  if  you  decide  that  you'd  like  to  give  her 
up.  Of  course,  I  don't  know  how  soon  I  might 
change  my  mind.  In  case  Mrs.  Thomburg  loses 
interest,  I'd  be  through  with  the  case,  naturally." 

He  turned  to  his  desk  again  and  examined  a 
letter  which  came  uppermost,  frowning  and  purs- 
ing his  lips  as  if  he  were  giving  it  deep  considera- 
tion. 

Baron  did  not  wholly  succeed  in  repressing  a 
smile.  "All  wrong,"  he  said  amiably.  "The  Greeks 
must  have  borne  gifts  to  you  before  now,  Thornburg. 
No,  I'm  not  tired  of  her.  I'm  not  likely  to  be, 
either.  Why,  she's  like  a  tonic.  Sense?  You 
wouldn't  believe  it.  She's  forever  surprising  you 
by  taking  some  familiar  old  idea  and  making  you 
really  see  it  for  the  first  time.  She  can  stay  at 
our  house  until  the  roof  falls  in,  if  she  only  will — 
though  of  course  I  don't  hope  she'd  be  willing  to. 
But  don't  think  there's  any  question  of  our  getting 
tired  of  her.  She's  not  that  kind.  I  might  add, 
neither  are  we." 

Much  to  his  amazement  Thomburg  sprang  to 
his  feet  excitedly. 

"I  don't  know  what  you're  getting  at!"  he  ex- 
claimed. "If  you've  got  anything  to  say,  why  not 
say  it  and  be  done  with  it?'* 

196 


"I  don't  know  what  you're  getting  at !"  he  exclaimed.  "If 
you've  got  anything  to  say,  why  not  say  it  and  be  done 
with  it  ?  " 


"A  Kind  of  Duel" 

Baron  arose,  too.  He  thought  he  was  justified 
in  feeling  offended.  "I  think,"  he  said  quietly, 
"I  haven't  got  anything  to  say,  after  all."  He 
managed  to  keep  his  voice  and  eyes  under  control. 
These  proclaimed  no  unfriendliness.  But  his  lips 
had  become  somewhat  rigid. 

"But  you  did  have,"  retorted  Thomburg.  He 
sat  down  again  and  produced  a  handkerchief  with 
which  he  wiped  his  face  and  neck  nervously. 
"Come,  don't  pay  any  attention  to  my  bad  man- 
ners. You  know  I've  got  a  thousand  things  to 
worry  me." 

"Yes,  I  know.  I'm  reaUy  trjdng  to  help — or  I 
had  the  thought  of  helping.  You — you  make  it  a 
bit  difficult." 

"There  was  something  about  the  little  girl," 
said  Thomburg. 

"Yes.  As  to  her — status.  Chapter  I — the  in- 
quiry for  her,  and  our  Httle  flurry — seems  to  be 
completed." 

"They  probably  didn't  care  about  her  very 
much." 

"Well — ^possibly.  At  any  rate,  we  seem  to  have 
come  to  a  full  stop  for  the  time  being.  And  I've 
been  thinking  about  the  future.  I  ought  to  tell 
you  that  after  my  talk  with  Mrs.  Thomburg,  the 
case  didn't  seem  quite  so  simple  as  it  had  seemed." 

Thomburg,  clasping  his  knee  in  his  hands,  was 
bending  upon  the  floor  a  gaze  darkened  by  labored 
thought,  / 

.197 


Bonnie  May 

"I've  begun  to  feel  a  kind  of  moral  responsibility. 
At  first  I  thought  only  of  my  own  point  of  view. 
My  family's,  I  mean.  Our  interests  and  pleasures. 
But  you  see  there's  also  something  to  be  said  from 
the  standpoint  of  our — our  guest.  I  wouldn't 
want  to  lessen  her  chances  of  future  happiness.  I 
wouldn't  want  to  have  my  way  altogether  and 
then  find  out  after  a  while  that  it  had  been  the 
wrong  way.  I  never  realized  before  how  much 
the  people  of  the  stage  are  born  and  not  made. 
That's  the  gist  of  the  matter.  There  will  come  a 
time  when  nothing  in  the  world  is  going  to  keep 
Bonnie  May  off  the  stage.  That's  my  conviction 
now." 

"They  say  children  do  inherit — "  interposed 
Thornburg. 

"The  question  of  her  future  stumps  you  a  bit. 
It's  not  as  if  she  were  like  any  other  little  girl  I  ever 
heard  of.  It's  like  this:  I'd  like  to  have  a  skylark 
in  a  cage,  if  it  would  sing  for  me.  But  I'd  never 
be  able  to  forget  that  its  right  place  was  in  the 
sky.  You  see  what  I  mean.  I  don't  want  to  be 
wholly  responsible  for  keeping  Bonnie  May — out 
of  the  sky." 

"Well?" 

"My  ideas  aren't  exactly  definite.  But  I  want 
her  to  be  free.  I  want  her  to  have  a  part  in  work- 
ing things  out  the  way  she  wants  them." 

"That's  good  sense.    Turn  her  over  to  me,  then." 

"That's  not  the  idea  at  all.  I  think  up  to  a 
198 


"A  Kind  of  DueP' 

certain  point  it  may  be  good  for  her  to  experience 
the — the  gentle  tyrannies  which  are  part  of  her 
life  with  us.  On  the  other  hand,  if  she  becomes 
identified  with  you  (I  don't  know  just  what  other 
word  to  use),  and  you  get  to  be  fond  of  her,  why 
then  in  a  material  sense.  .  .  .  Oh,  I  don't  like 
the  tone  of  that  at  all.  But  you'll  get  the  idea, 
and  take  it  for  granted  that  what  I'm  trying  to  get 
at  is  that  I  don't  want  to  stand  in  Bonnie  May's 
Kght." 

Baron  tried  to  join  the  manager  in  the  latter's 
impatient  laugh.  "You'll  have  to  excuse  my  dense- 
ness,"  said  Thornburg.  "I  get  your  meaning  as 
easy  as  I  can  see  into  a  pocket.  The  way  it  sounds 
to  me  is  that  you're  sure  you  want  to  keep  her, 
and  that  you're  just  as  sure  that  you  don't  want 
to  keep  her." 

"That's  nearly  it,"  admitted  Baron,  flushing 
sUghtly.  "Suppose  I  say  that  I  want  to  keep  her 
a  part  of  the  time,  and  that  I'd  like  you  to  keep 
her  the  other  part.  Suppose  I  offer  to  share  her 
with  you:  to  encourage  her  to  visit  Mrs.  Thorn- 
burg a  day  at  a  time — days  at  a  time — a  week  at 
a  time.  Suppose  we  take  her  on  a  kind  of  partner- 
ship basis.  No  unfair  influence;  no  special  induce- 
ments. Suppose  I  make  it  plain  to  her  that  you 
and  Mrs.  Thornburg  are  her  real  friends,  and  that 
you  will  be  glad  to  have  her  come  as  often  as  she 
likes,  and  stay  as  long  as  she  likes." 

Thomburg's  eyes  were  beginning  to  brighten. 
199 


Bonnie  May 

"Would  you,"  added  Baron,  ''do  the  same  thing 
by  us?  I  mean,  would  you  encourage  her  to  come 
to  us  when  she  felt  like  it,  and  see  that  she  had  the 
chance  to  go  as  freely  as  she  came?" 

Thornburg's  flushed  face  was  all  good-nature 
now.  The  little  barriers  which  he  had  kept  be- 
tween his  visitor  and  himself  fell  away  completely. 

"A  kind  of  duel  between  us,"  he  elaborated,  "to 
see  which  of  us  has  the  best  attractions  to  offer?" 

"Well — ^yes,  you  might  put  it  that  way,  I  sup- 
pose. That's  a  theatrical  phrase,  I  beheve.  Per- 
haps it  wouldn't  have  occurred  to  me.  At  any 
rate,  the  plan  I've  outlined  would  give  her  a  chance 
to  do  a  little  deciding  on  her  own  account.  It 
would  give  her  a  chance  to  give  her  affections  to 
those  who  win  them.  It  would  place  some  of  the 
responsibihty  for  her  future  on  her  own  shoulders. 
And  whatever  conclusions  she  came  to  I'd  be  will- 
ing to  bank  on." 

"That,"  declared  Thornburg  with  enthusiasm, 
"is  what  I  call  the  proposition  of  a  first-class  sport." 
He  extended  his  hand  to  Baron.  "You  stick  to 
your  part  of  the  bargain  and  I'U  play  fair  to  the 
letter." 

He  would  have  shown  Baron  out  of  the  office, 
then.  He  had  a  taste  for  suitable  climaxes,  too. 
But  Baron  lingered,  chiefly  because  he  didn't  like 
the  prospect  of  an  almost  mischievous  conflict 
which  the  manager  seemed  to  welcome  and  to 
anticipate. 

200 


"A  Kind  of  Duel" 

"She  can  be  loyal  to  us  all,"  he  said,  "if  she's 
encouraged  in  being." 

At  the  sound  of  his  own  words  he  fell  to  think- 
ing. 

No,  she  wouldn't  need  to  be  encouraged.  She 
would  be  loyal  without  that.  There  was  nothing  to 
fear  on  that  score  at  all. 

He  looked  up  rather  whimsically.  "Well,  I'll 
tell  her,"  he  said. 

"You'U  teU  her " 

"That  she  has  been  invited  to  visit  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Thornburg,  and  make  herself  quite  at  home." 


20t 


CHAPTER  XVIII 
MRS.  BARON  TAKES  XJP  THE  GAUNTLET 

Having  decided  upon  what  he  conceived  to  be  an 
admirable  plan  of  action,  Baron  was  unwilling  to 
believe  that  he  ought  to  be  in  any  hurry  to  execute 
his  plan. 

For  the  time  being  Bonnie  May  was  getting 
along  very  well  indeed.  In  fact,  Baron  made  a 
point  of  looking  into  this  matter  with  a  good  deal 
of  thoroughness,  from  a  somewhat  new  angle,  and 
he  was  greatly  pleased  by  what  he  discovered. 

Little  by  little  the  child  had  become  habituated 
to  the  home  atmosphere.  This,  of  course,  was 
due  largely  to  the  fact  that  the  other  members  of 
the  family  had  become  habituated  to  having  her 
about.  They  no  longer  felt  constrained  to  utter 
pleasant  nothings,  or  to  hold  their  tongues,  be- 
cause of  her  presence.  When  they  forgot  her 
"strangeness,"  she  ceased  to  be  strange. 

She  obediently  and  even  intelligently  attended 
when  Mrs.  Baron  gave  her  her  lesson  on  the  piano. 

"Though  I  think,"  she  confided  to  Baron  on  one 
occasion,  "I  could  get  hold  of  the  high  places  with- 
out going  through  all  the  funny  business  she  seems 
to  regard  so  highly." 

202 


Mrs.  Baron  Takes  Up  the  Gauntlet 

Baron  spoke  in  defense  of  the  "funny  business," 
and  presently  she  agreed  with  him. 

The  guest's  wardrobe  had  been  made  gloriously 
complete,  and  in  this  relationship  another  pleasant 
development  was  to  be  noted. 

Bonnie  May  had  been  painfully  accustomed  to 
the  use  of  trunks.  Now  she  made  the  acquaintance 
of  bureau  drawers,  and  her  deHght  was  unbounded. 
She  spent  hours  in  arranging  her  things.  She  won 
Flora's  genuine  applause  by  her  skill  and  taste  in 
this  matter. 

Flora  bought  her  a  hat. 

She  looked  at  it  in  a  queerly  detached  manner 
for  an  instant.  "Oh,  a  hat,"  she  commented.  She 
might  have  been  repeating  a  word  spoken  by  a 
travel-lecturer,  describing  some  interesting  place 
which  did  not  seem  to  concern  her.  It  appeared 
that  she  never  had  owned  a  hat. 

She  put  it  on  before  the  glass.  "  Oh ! "  she  cried. 
She  thrust  impulsive  arms  about  Flora's  neck  and 
hugged  her. 

Flora  enjoyed  that  experience  so  much  that  she 
bought  another  hat  which  she  described  as  "un- 
made." Ribbons  of  gay  colors,  and  white  lace,  and 
little  silk  flowers  of  various  hues,  came  with  it,  and 
the  child  was  given  these  materials  to  experiment 
with  as  she  pleased.  Flora  gave  advice,  and  was 
ready  with  assistance. 

Again  the  result  was  interesting.  Bonnie  May 
experienced  a  joy  which  was  rapt,  almost  tremulous 

203 


Bonnie  May 

in  quality.  A  desert-bred  bird,  coming  upon  an 
oasis,  might  have  regarded  its  surroundings  with 
the  same  incredulous  rapture. 

Baron's  room  became  hers  permanently,  and 
here  she  developed  a  keen  delight  in  "housekeep- 
ing." Here  also  she  received  Mrs.  Baron  and 
Flora  as  guests,  and  amazed  them  by  her  perform- 
ance of  the  part  of  hostess. 

"I  call  it  nonsense,"  declared  Mrs.  Baron  to 
Flora,  after  the  two  had  paid  a  formal  call.  But 
her  face  was  flushed  with  happiness  and  her  voice 
was  unwontedly  soft. 

"Not  nonsense,"  responded  Flora;  "it's  just 
happiness." 

She  spent  whole  afternoons  with  Mrs.  Shepard 
in  the  kitchen  and  dining-room.  She  learned  how 
to  bake  little  cakes. 

It  became  her  duty — ^by  her  own  request — to 
set  the  table,  and  upon  this  task  she  expended  the 
most  earnest  thought. 

Baron  commented  upon  this  on  one  occasion. 
"Ah,  you're  not  an  artist,  after  all.  You're  a 
Gretchen,"  he  said. 

"But  everything  about  the  table  is  so  pretty 
and  nice,"  she  responded.  "It's  as  elegant  as  a 
table  in  a  play,  and  ever  so  much  more  sensible. 
You  know  something  always  happens  when  you 
sit  down  to  a  table  on  the  stage.  A  servant  comes 
in  and  says:  'Beg  pardon,  mum,  but  there's  a  gentle- 
man— ^he  says  he's  your  uncle  from  Green  Bay' — 

204 


Mrs.  Baron  Takes  Up  the  Gauntlet 

and  then  everybody  gets  up  in  a  hurry,  because 
the  uncle  is  supposed  to  believe  his  niece  has  a  lot 
of  children  he's  been  helping  to  support,  when  she 
hasn't  got  any  at  all.    Or  something  like  that." 

In  brief,  there  were  a  hundred  accumulating 
evidences  to  prove  that  Bonnie  May  in  the  Baron 
household  was  the  right  individual  in  the  right 
place. 

It  is  true  that  Mrs.  Baron  did  not  forget  how 
Thornburg  had  called  on  a  certain  night  to  take 
the  child  away,  and  how  she  had  given  him  to 
understand — she  supposed — that  she  would  expect 
him  back  on  the  same  errand  some  other  time. 
And  Baron  could  not  free  his  mind  of  the  fact  that 
he  had  voluntarily  entered  into  a  compact  by 
which  his  guest  must  sooner  or  later  be  lost  to  the 
household  at  least  a  part  of  the  time. 

But  these  were  matters  which  were  not  dis- 
cussed in  the  family. 

A  week  passed — two  weeks,  and  Baron  hadn't 
seen  Thornburg  or  communicated  with  him.  One 
day  in  June  the  thermometer  shot  up  in  real  mid- 
summer fashion,  and  the  audiences  in  most  of  the 
theatres  were  such  that  aU  the  shrewd  managers 
became  Hstless  and  absent-minded.  The  "regular 
season"  was  over. 

Thornburg  closed  his  theatre  and  turned  his 
attention  to  a  summer  resort  where  there  was  an 
opportunity  to  launch  an  al  fresco  entertainment 
scheme.     "Everybody  was  leaving  town."     There 

205 


Bonnie  May 

remained  only  the  uncounted  thousands  for  whom 
some  lighter  form  of  entertainment  must  be  pro- 
vided. 

The  flight  of  time,  the  inevitable  march  of  events, 
brought  to  Baron  a  realization  of  the  fact  that 
there  was  a  promise  he  must  keep.  And  so  one  day, 
during  an  hour  in  the  attic,  he  spoke  to  Bonnie 
May. 

She  didn't  seem  to  pay  any  attention  at  all  to 
his  preHminary  words.  It  slowly  dawned  upon  her 
that  what  Baron  was  saying  concerned  her  in  a 
special  way. 

"...  people  you  will  be  interested  in,  I  am 
sure,"  Baron  was  saying.  "Thomburg,  the  name 
is."  He  glanced  at  her;  but  the  name  had  made 
no  impression.  "Mrs.  Thornburg  is  not  very 
strong,  and  a  cheerful  visit  ought  to  be  just  the 
thing  to  help  her.  Mr.  Thornburg  is  a  theatrical 
man.  Why,  it  was  his  theatre  I  met  you  in.  They 
have  a  beautiful  home." 

"Oh,  that  makes  me  think,"  was  all  the  reply 
he  received.  "What  became  of  the  man  who  had 
a  play?" 

"Eh— a  play?" 

"You  remember — ^when  I  first  came.  He  had 
the  first  act  and  read  it  to  you  in  the  Hbrary,  and 
I  had  to  go  to  bed." 

"  Oh — ^Baggot.  He's  probably  forgotten  all  about 
it  by  this  time.  Or  writing  another  that  he'll  never 
finish." 

206 


Mrs.  Baron  Takes  Up  the  Gauntlet 

She  shook  her  head,  unconvinced.  "He  was  so 
enthusiastic,"  she  objected. 

So  for  the  time  being  there  was  an  end  to  the  dis- 
cussion of  her  visit  to  the  Thornburgs. 

Another  week  passed,  and  then  Baron  had  an 
extraordinarily  busy  day. 

In  the  forenoon  came  a  letter  from  one  of  the 
dramatic  editors  for  whom  Baron  had  done  special 
work  occasionally. 

"They  are  launching  some  sort  of  a  dramatic 
stock  enterprise  out  at  Fairyland  to-night,"  the 
letter  ran,  "and  I'm  hoping  you  can  do  it  for  me. 
Thomburg  is  managing  it.  I  don't  hope  it  will 
be  much  as  a  dramatic  proposition,  but  you  might 
be  able  to  get  some  readable  impressions.  Please 
let  me  know." 

A  later  mail  brought  a  communication  from 
Thornburg. 

The  sight  of  the  manager's  signature  brought 
Baron  up  with  a  jerk — ^but  he  was  reassured  by  the 
first  few  lines.  Thomburg  wasn't  charging  him 
with  bad  faith.  Instead,  he  was  enclosing  an  order 
for  an  unlimited  number  of  seats  for  the  Fairyland 
opening. 

"I  understand,"  ran  a  pencilled  line  by  way  of 
postscript  and  explanation,  "that  you  are  to  rep- 
resent the  Times  to-night." 

Also  there  was  a  letter  from  Baggot.  Baggot's 
play  had  reached  a  stage  where  it  needed  Baron's 

207 


Bonnie  May 

inspection.  The  budding  playwright  asked  no 
questions.  He  merely  declared  his  intention  of 
calling  that  night. 

Baron  went  up  into  the  attic  to  look  at  the  morn- 
ing paper.  He  wanted  to  know  what  they  were 
doing  out  at  Fairyland,  and  who  was  doing  it. 

And  while  he  noted  one  impressive  name  after 
another,  he  was  arrested  by  an  altogether  amazing 
sound  down  in  his  mother's  sitting-room.  Mrs. 
Baron  had  been  giving  Bonnie  May  her  music 
lesson,  and  now,  the  lesson  done,  she  was  singing 
for  her  pupil. 

The  thin  old  voice  faltered  on  some  of  the  notes, 
but  the  words  came  clear  enough: 

"...  She's  all  the  world  to  me, 
And  for  bonnie  Annie  Laurie  ..." 

Baron  smiled  and  shook  his  head. 

"What  was  it,"  he  mused,  "about  a  plan  of 
reconstruction?" 

Then  he  went  down-stairs  to  telephone  his  ac- 
ceptance to  the  man  on  the  Times. 

Baggot  he  completely  forgot. 

When  Baron  entered  the  dining-room  at  dinner- 
time that  evening  Flora  looked  at  him  with  mild 
surprise. 

"All  dressed  up  and  nowhere  to  go,"  said  she. 

"But  there  is  somewhere  to  go.  I'm  going  to 
208 


Mrs.  Baron  Takes  Up  the  Gauntlet 

write  up  the  Fairyland  opening.  Would  you  like 
to  go  with  me?" 

"No,  thank  you." 

It  was  clearly  understood  that  Baron's  question 
had  been  put  in  a  spirit  of  jest.  It  was  understood 
that  Flora  and  her  kind  did  not  go  to  the  Fairy- 
lands— and  their  kind. 

But  Bonnie  May  failed  to  grasp  the  situation. 

"What's  Fairyland?"  she  inquhed. 

"A  large  enclosure  occupied  entirely  by  mad 
people,  and  with  a  theatre  in  one  corner." 

She  ignored  the  reference  to  mad  people.  "Oh! 
a  theatre.    What  are  they  playing?" 

"A  piece  called  "The  Second  Mrs.  Tanqueray/  " 
said  Baron. 

She  sat  up,  swiftly  erect,  and  clasped  her  hands. 
"How  fine!"  was  her  comment.  "Do  you  think 
you  could  take  me?" 

"I  should  say  not!"  Baron  responded  without 
thinking.  His  unthinking  refusal  was  a  result  of 
the  habitual  Baron  attitude.  But  as  he  regarded 
her  thoughtfully,  and  noted  the  puzzled  inquiry 
in  her  glance,  he  couldn't  quite  understand  why 
he  had  been  so  emphatic,  so  confident  of  being 
right.  "It's  not  a  play  a  little  girl  would  care  for," 
he  added,  now  on  the  defensive. 

She  smiled  indulgently.  "The  idea!  I  mean, 
anybody  would  be  interested  in  it." 

"What's  it  about?"  challenged  Baron. 

"A  lady  who  died  because  they  were  unkind  to 
209 


Bonnie  May 

her — even  the  people  who  loved  her.  It's  about  a 
lot  of  snobs  and  a — a  human  being."  She  spoke 
with  feeling.  She  sensed  the  fact  that  again  she 
was  being  required  to  stand  alone. 

Baron  frowned.  "How  in  the  world  did  you  find 
out  anything  about  a  play  like  that?" 

"Miss  Barry  did  it  in  Denver  one  time — ^when 
she  was  with  a  stock  company.  I  can't  understand 
why  you  speak  as  if  there  was  something  wrong 
about  it.  I  think  it's  great.  You  can  cry  like  any- 
thing when  you  see  it — ^because  it  seems  as  if  what 
happens  couldn't  have  been  helped.  It  isn't  one 
of  those  things  that's  been  screwed  around  to  make 
everybody  feel  as  if  they'd  been  eating  caramels. 
You  remember  it ! " 

Baron,  Sr.,  engaged  in  carving  the  roast,  twinkled 
somewhat  darkly. 

"You  might  get  her  to  shape  your  criticism  for 
you,  Victor,"  he  suggested. 

"I  don't  know  if  the  editor  would  stand  for 
'screwed  arotmd,' "  said  Baron,  "but  upon  my 
soul,  I  think  she's  right." 

"Well,  don't  you  think  you  could  take  me,  then?" 
asked  Bonnie  May. 

"It  reaUy  isn't  possible.  You  see,  I  must  hurry 
down  to  the  office  right  after  the  performance — to 
write  it,  you  know." 

The  child  leaned  toward  Mrs.  Baron,  a  very 
real  shadow  trembling  on  her  face.  "Couldn't  you 
go,  so  you  could  bring  me  home?"  she  asked.    Her 

2IO 


Mrs.  Baron  Takes  Up  the  Gauntlet 

voice  was  nearly  inaudible,  through  fear  of  dis- 
appointment. "I  haven't  been  for  such  a  long  time. 
You  can't  think  how  dearly  I'd  like  to  go." 

Mrs.  Baron  was  provoked  by  the  child's  intense 
earnestness.  "Oh — impossible!"  she  said.  She 
noted  the  look  of  despair  in  Bonnie  May's  eyes. 
"There  wouldn't  be  enough  tickets,  anyway,"  she 
added  weakly. 

Baron  leaned  back  in  his  chair  as  if  he  had  lost 
his  appetite.  What  was  the  matter  with  them  all, 
anyway,  that  they  were  afraid  to  get  down  into  the 
crowd  once  in  a  while  ?  Plenty  of  really  nice  people 
went  to  all  manner  of  places — in  search  of  novelty, 
for  diversion,  in  order  to  get  into  touch  with  man- 
kind. He  had  spoken  of  mad  persons  out  at  Fairy- 
land. That  was  merely  a  silly  cynicism.  They 
weren't  any  madder  than  other  people.  Surely 
they  were  saner,  since  they  were  willing  to  enjoy 
the  best  that  life  afforded. 

"I've  got  plenty  of  seats,  mother,"  he  said.  He 
returned  to  ^his  dinner,  smiling  somewhat  mah- 
ciously. 

"Victor!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Baron.  She  flushed 
angrily.  "You  know  very  well  I  won't  go  to  such 
a  place." 

Bonnie  May's  voice  trailed  away  to  a  whisper- 
almost  to  a  whimper.  "Nice  people  can  go  any- 
where they  want  to  go,"  she  said.  "It's  only  siUy 
people  who  need  to  be  afraid,  because  they  don't 
know  how  to  think  for  themselves." 

211. 


Bonnie  May 

She  tried  very  hard  to  eat  her  dinner  then,  and 
to  say  no  more.  But  presently  she  said,  faintly, 
"Please  excuse  me,"  and  ran,  weeping  in  true 
childish  abandon,  from  the  room. 

It  was  the  first  time  she  had  really  lost  control 
over  herself ! 

Baron,  Sr.,  was  the  first  to  speak.  "She's  only  a 
child,"  he  said,  as  if  anything  more  would  be  super- 
fluous. 

An  ensuing  silence  was  broken  by  the  sound  of 
the  telephone-bell,  and  Mrs.  Baron  was  glad  to 
respond,  as  a  means  of  putting  the  finishing  touches 
to  an  uncomfortable  episode. 

But  the  telephone  seemed  only  to  create  other 
difficulties.  The  group  at  the  table  were  quite  at 
a  loss  to  know  what  could  have  brought  such  an 
extraordinary  sharpness  into  Mrs.  Baron's  voice. 
She  was  soon  grasping  the  receiver  angrily,  and 
they  heard  her  saying,  with  uncomfortable  inter- 
vals between  her  words  and  phrases:  "To-night? 
Bonnie  May?  Mr.  Baron?  Why  should  he  do 
anything  of  the  kind?  No,  I  don't  understand  at 
all.  No.  ..."  She  turned  around  in  quick  dis- 
pleasure. "Victor,"  she  appealed,  "will  you  see 
what  they  want?" 

And  Baron  hurried  to  the  phone  and  took  up  the , 
broken  conversation. 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Thornburg!"  he  began.  Then,  after 
a  pause,  "Yes,  that  was  the  imderstanding.  There 
wasn't  any  definite  time  set — "    A  pause.    "Yes, 

212 


Mrs.  Baron  Takes  Up  the  Gauntlet 

I  know  he  is.  I'm  going  out  there,  too."  Another 
pause,  and  then,  "Well,  I  suppose  it  might  be 
managed.  I'll  ask  her.  I  promised — ^we  both 
agreed — that  she  should  do  as  she  pleased " 

He  turned  back  to  the  table  with  a  brave  attempt 
at  briskness.  But  the  inquiring  glances  bent  upon 
him  were  disconcerting. 

Mrs.  Baron  went  and  unceremoniously  hung  up 
the  receiver.  She  had,  it  seemed,  understood  quite 
accurately  what  the  person  at  the  other  end  of 
the  phone  had  been  saying. 

"It's  an  invitation  for  Bonnie  May,"  said  Baron, 
trying  to  shake  off  the  feeling  that  he  was  a  guilty 
wretch.  "Mrs.  Thomburg  particularly  wishes  her 
to  come  over  this  evening,  because  she's  to  be  alone." 

"Well!"  was  Mrs.  Baron's  comment.  "Why 
should  she  go  over  there,  I'd  like  to  know?" 

Baron  hesitated.  "The  fact  is,  I  entered  into  a 
sort  of  compact  with  Thomburg " 

"Yes,  I  gathered  something  of  the  kind,"  said 
Mrs.  Baron  angrily.  "I  suppose  I  have  nothing 
to  say,  one  way  or  another." 

"It  was  when  you  were  still  of  the  belief  that 
Bonnie  May  couldn't  be — quite  comfortable  with 
us,  and  Thomburg  ...  I  don't  think  I  was 
wholly  unjustified  in  what  I  promised.  You  re- 
member you  said  that  as  soon  as  she  could  be  got 
ready — "  He  was  floundering  painfully  now,  with 
the  eyes  of  everybody  in  the  room  turned  upon 
him  accusingly.     "Mrs.  Thomburg  says  she  has 

213 


Bonnie  May 

a  room  ready,  specially  fitted  up  for  her,  and  she 
only  asks  that  she  may  spend  the  night " 

Mrs.  Baron  had  a  vision  of  that  room  that  had 
been  "specially  fitted  up"  for  the  child,  who  was 
now  away  somewhere  grieving  because  she  had 
been  refused  a  greatly  coveted  privilege.  No  doubt 
the  Thomburg  woman  had  spent  whole  weeks  and 
no  end  of  money  in  fitting  up  that  room.  And  she 
thought  with  a  sinking  heart  of  the  gloom  of  the 
mansion,  and  its  threadbare  aspects. 

"Victor  Baron,"  she  cried  angrily,  "I  wish  you 
would  tell  me  just  what  agreement  you  made  with 
that  theatre  man.    I  want  to  know  where  I  stand." 

And  Baron  explained — or,  rather,  he  failed  to 
explain  very  clearly.  The  idea  of  "a  sort  of  duel" 
not  only  failed  to  dehght  his  auditors  as  it  had  de- 
Hghted  Thornburg,  but  they  looked  as  if  they  con- 
sidered it  a  type  of  criminal  and  unseemly  folly. 

"You  see,"  persisted  Baron,  "the  Thornburgs 
aj-e  rich  people.  They  may  go  so  far  as  to  adopt 
Bonnie  May,  if  the  thing  works  out  satisfactorily. 
I  know  how  that  sounds,  but  we've  got  to  think 
of — of  her  interests,  as  well  as  our  own  whims." 

"Whims!"    This,  witheringly,  from  Mrs.  Baron. 

"I  think  it  was  mostly  whims  at  first,  anyway." 

"You're  speaking  for  yourself — ^not  for  me." 

"And  the  Thornburgs  are  not  bad  people.  I 
don't  see  why  they  shouldn't  make  her  quite  happy. 
I'm  not  at  all  sure  we  could  do  as  much,  if  we  under- 
took to  keep  her  here  constantly." 

214 


Mrs.  Baron  Takes  Up  the  Gauntlet 

"That,"  said  Mrs.  Baron  "is  your  mean  way  of 
reminding  me  of  what  happened  just  a  Kttle  while 
ago!" 

"Oh,  no,  mother!  But  she's  such  a  joyous  little 
thing !  I  think  she'll  like  us  aU  the  better  for  see- 
ing other  people  once  in  a  while." 

Mrs.  Baron  gazed  at  her  son  silently,  her  face 
darkening.  He  realized  that  her  mind  was  filled 
with  scorn,  with  resistance,  with  misgivings.  "And 
I  suppose,"  she  said,  "that  everything  in  their 
house  is  the  newest  and  brightest  and  costHest!" 
She  enumerated  these  qualities  as  if  she  were  point- 
ing out  so  many  of  the  cardinal  sins. 

Baron  pretended  not  to  understand.  "They 
live  nicely,"  he  said.  "But  as  far  as  Bonnie  May  is 
concerned,  I  don't  think  you  need  fear  that  the 
things  the  Thomburgs  have  will  give  them  any 
advantage  over  us." 

"Well,  I  don't  want  her  to  go,"  declared  Mrs. 
Baron. 

Baron  was  standing  in  indecision  when,  happily, 
there  was  an  interruption. 

The  front  door  closed  rather  noisily,  as  it  did 
when  Mrs.  Shepard  was  not  in  a  very  good  humor, 
and  there  was  the  sound  of  Baggot's  voice  in  the 
haU. 

Baron  groaned.  He  had  forgotten  about  Bag- 
got.  He  went  out  into  the  hall  and  confronted  the 
playwright  apologetically.  "I'd  really  forgotten," 
he  began,  but  Baggot  cut  him  short. 

215 


Bonnie  May 

"It's  all  right,"  remarked  that  young  man. 
"Come  on  up  to  the  library.  I  needn't  keep  you 
long.  But  it's  simply  necessary — "  He  was  lead- 
ing the  way  up-stairs  as  if  he  were  in  his  own  house. 

"Look  here,  Baggot,"  remonstrated  Baron,  "I've 
got  to  go  out  to-night,  in  half  an  hour — ^in  fifteen 
minutes.  You'll  have  to  come  back  some  other 
night." 

"Where  you  going?" 

Baron  gasped  at  the  man*s  rudeness. 

"I've  got  to  review  a  play,  out  at " 

"Fine!    I'U  go  with  you ! " 

Baron  sank  into  a  chair.  There  really  wasn't 
any  reason  why  Baggot  shouldn't  go  with  him. 
"But  I'm  going  on  the  street-car,"  he  explained. 
"We  couldn't  read  a  play " 

"It's  not  ready  to  be  read,  most  of  it.  IVe  only 
got  a  couple  of  acts  and  the  scenario.  But  there 
are  certain  things.  ..."  He  pulled  his  chair 
closer  to  Baron's  and  began  an  eager  discussion 
of  his  play. 

Time  passed,  and  Flora  appeared  in  the  door- 
way. Her  eyes  were  inscrutable.  "Mother  wishes 
to  see  you  before  you  go  out,"  she  said. 

"Will  she  come  up  here?"  pleaded  Baron.  He 
wanted  to  hide  behind  Baggot  and  escape  a  further 
scolding. 

"I'll  ask  her,"  replied  Flora. 

Baggot,  leaning  forward  and  speaking  with  great  in- 
tensity, continued  on  the  subject  which  obsessed  him. 

216 


Mrs.  Baron  Takes  Up  the  Gauntlet 

Time  flew,  and  Baron  found  himself  nervously 
jerking  out  his  watch.  Then  there  was  a  faint  rustle 
of  dresses  out  in  the  sitting-room. 

Mrs.  Baron  appeared  in  the  doorway. 

She  was  dressed  with  all  the  exquisite,  subtle 
attention  to  detail  which  never  failed  to  make 
Baron  proud  of  her.  He  took  in  the  quiet,  old- 
fashioned  jewelry,  sparingly  displayed;  the  softened 
dignity  of  costume;  the  fine  severity  of  her  beauti- 
ful hair.  Surely  she  was  every  inch  a  gentlewoman 
of  whom  any  son  might  be  proud. 

She  held  Bonnie  May,  smiling  serenely,  by  the 
hand. 

"I  just  wanted  you  to  know,"  she  said,  standing 
impressively  erect  and  speaking  with  quiet  resolu- 
tion, "that  we  are  ready  to  go  to  the  play." 


217 


CHAPTER  XrX 
BONNIE  MAY  LOOKS  BACK 

Baggot's  play,  it  seemed,  was  really  a  charming 
thing — a  modernized  fairy-story. 

To  the  monotonous  rumble  of  revolving  car- 
wheels  the  plot  was  outlined,  the  characters 
sketched.  Baron  felt  the  dramatic  force  of  it, 
the  surprises.  But  as  the  enthusiastic  playwright 
proceeded  with  his  self-appointed  task.  Baron  be- 
gan to  realize,  also,  that  he  and  his  companions 
and  their  affairs  constituted  a  very  queer  sort  of 
drama. 

By  his  side  sat  Baggot,  and  in  front  of  them 
were  his  mother  and  Bonnie  May.  Mrs.  Baron, 
for  special  reasons  of  her  own,  was  making  a  studied 
and  persistent  effort  to  be  entertaining.  She  talked 
to  the  child  almost  continuously.  But  Baron  could 
not  help  seeing  that  Bonnie  May  was  determinedly 
playing  a  double  r61e.  She  was  politely  pretending 
to  listen  to  every  word  Mrs.  Baron  said,  but  she 
was  also  keeping  one  ear  eagerly  turned  toward 
Baggot. 

Baggot,  for  his  part,  saw  only  that  Baron  seemed 
to  be  giving  a  good  deal  of  his  attention  to  the 
little  girl  in  the  seat  ahead.     He  couldn't  make 

218 


Bonnie  May  Looks  Back 

any  excuse  for  such  division  of  interest.  He  began 
leaning  forward  at  frequent  intervals  to  catch 
Baron's  eye — to  see  if  the  points  he  was  making 
were  going  home. 

Only  Mrs.  Baron  remained  in  a  single-minded 
mood.  She  continued  to  talk  amiably,  and  no 
doubt  a  bit  wearyingly.  She  was  determined  that 
Bonnie  May  should  have  no  ground  for  complaint 
that  she  was  not  being  properly  entertained. 

"You  see,"  Baggot  was  saying,  "the  central 
figure  is  an  elf,  or  a  sprite,  who  is  supposed  to  be 
an  embodiment  of  the  good  traits  in  human  nature. 
And  then  there  are  witches,  and  gnomes,  and 
dwarfs,  and  some  big  fellows — ^vikings  and  Titans 
and  giants — and  some  figures  put  in  for  the  sake 
of — well,  variety:  druids,  and  people  like  that. 
And  Psyche — to  make  a  swell  pictm*e.  Looking 
at  her  reflection,  you  know.  All  but  the  central 
figure,  the  sprite,  are  supposed  to  embody  faulty 
traits,  like  cruelty,  or  vanity,  or  superstition,  or 
jealousy,  or  envy,  or  fear.  And  then  certain  other 
qualities — ^for  comedy  effects,  like  laziness,  or  stub- 
bornness, or  stupidity.  See?  And  the  sprite  gov- 
erns them  all,  Httle  by  little,  until  in  the  end  they 
turn  into  fairies,  or  nice  human  beings.  A  great 
transformation  scene.  ..." 

Baggot  stopped  suddenly  and  frowned.  "It 
soimds  childish,  telling  it.  As  if  it  were  some  silly 
sort  of  extravaganaa.  But  there's  the  dialogue. 
Smart  and  unexpected,  you  know.    Modem  draw- 

319 


Bonnie  May 

ing-room  stuff  put  up  against  the  heart  of  the 
forest  and  the  figures  of  the  story-books.  Bring- 
ing the  subHme  and  the  ridiculous  together,  you 
know — and  the  material  and  the  ideal,  and  the 
every-day  and  the  remote.  Silly  fallacies  of  our 
own  day,  set  against  the  truth  in  words  such  as 
JEsop  would  have  used."  He  stopped  suddenly 
and  threw  out  his  hands  in  a  despairing  gesture. 
"Oh,  what's  the  use?"  he  demanded.  "I  can't 
get  at  it  at  all,  just  talking  about  it.  You'll  have 
to  see  it  in  writing." 

"I'm  sure  I  imderstand,"  Baron  reassured  him. 
"You  don't  put  it  so  vaguely  at  all.  And  you 
know  I  saw  the  first  act." 

"Yes.  ...  But  I've  done  that  over — ever  so 
much  better."  He  clasped  his  knee  in  his  hands 
and  fidgeted  for  a  moment.  And  then  he  broke 
out  with —  "And  the  settings !  The  four  seasons, 
in  the  forest,  for  the  four  acts.  Big  things  to  hit 
the  eye — ^but  nicely,  you  know,  so  that  the  drama 
doesn't  suffer — so  that  it's  not  choked,  you  might 
say." 

"Yes,"  said  Baron,  "I  understand." 

Baggot  began  to  go  more  into  detail  touching 
the  plot.  He  put  this  part  of  it  very  incisively. 
Occasionally  he  laughed,  or  his  eyes  blazed  with 
satisfaction.  He  had  reached  the  end  before  it 
was  time  for  them  to  leave  the  car. 

Bonnie  May  had  seemed  to  be  listening  atten- 
tively to  Mrs.  Baron;    but  once  Baron  heard  her 

220 


Bonnie  May  Looks  Back 

say,  with  slight  confusion:  "I  beg  your  pardon," 
because  she  had  not  responded  to  a  question  that 
had  been  put  to  her. 

Now,  as  they  were  getting  ready  to  leave  the 
car,  she  nodded  her  head  decisively. 

"Why  are  you  nodding?"  asked  Mrs.  Baron. 
She  was  frankly  irritated. 

And  the  child  prevaricated.  "Oh,  I  think  it's 
because  I'm — well,  satisfied." 

The  entrance  to  Fairyland  might  have  been 
described  as  a  study  in  chaos.  Hundreds  of  people 
were  pouring  into  the  gates,  and  they  were  all 
coming  immediately  under  the  speU  of  the  bedlam 
of  noises  and  the  blaze  of  Hghts. 

Baron  had  one  moment  of  grave  doubt  as  he 
marshalled  his  party  before  getting  into  the  vortex 
of  hmnan  forms.  He  thought  his  mother  could 
not  have  looked  less  satisfied  with  things  in  general 
if  she  had  been  the  Peri  of  the  legend,  just  turned 
back  from  paradise  because  she  hadn't  brought 
the  thing  that  was  expected  of  her. 

But  Mrs.  Baron  was  playing  a  game.  Rather, 
she  was  fighting  a  battle,  and  she  remarked  cahnly, 
in  response  to  Baron's  anxious  look.  "It  won't 
be  so  bad  after  we  get  inside." 

"No  doubt  you're  right,"  replied  Baron,'  and 
then  they  all  pressed  forward. 

They  got  by  the  gatemen  just  as  a  car  of  the 
scenic-railway  variety  was  cut  loose  from  its  moor- 
ings on  a  high  platform  to  which  it  had  been 

221 


Bonnie  May 

dragged,  and  began  its  incredibly  swift  descent 
along  a  far-off  vista  of  trees  and  lights.  Women 
shrieked  as  if  they  were  being  enveloped  in  flames, 
and  tried  to  hold  their  hats  in  place. 

"Mercy!"  was  Mrs.  Baron's  coroment;  where- 
upon Baron  dropped  back  a  step,  and  hid  his  mouth 
with  his  hand. 

The  inrush  of  persons  behind  kept  them  going 
somewhat  smartly  past  the  first  group  of  "attrac- 
tions": an  "old  mill-wheel,"  with  an  entirely 
uniform  supply  of  water  tumbhng  down  upon  its 
buckets;  a  shooting-gallery;  a  negro  with  terrified, 
grinning  face  protruding  from  a  hole  in  a  curtain 
as  a  target  for  a  group  of  men  who  were  throwing 
baseballs. 

A  merry-go-round  started  just  as  Baron's  party 
passed,  and  a  popular  melody  was  ground  out  with 
quite  superfluous  vehemence.  Mrs.  Baron  paused 
— startled  into  making  a  halt,  seemingly — ^just 
long  enough  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  an  elderly  couple, 
a  man  and  a  woman,  mounted  upon  two  highly 
colored  lions.  They  were  undoubtedly  country  peo- 
ple, and  the  woman's  expression  indicated  that  she 
was  determined  not  to  betray  unfamiHarity  with 
the  high  Ufe  of  the  city. 

Mrs.  Baron  hadn't  even  an  ejaculation  which 
seemed  at  ail  adequate  to  her  needs  in  this  case. 

"I  think  the  theatre's  over  this  way,"  said  Baron, 
steering  a  course  vrhich  promised  escape  from  the 
main  currents  of  the  crowd. 

222 


Bonnie  May  Looks  Back 

Yes,  there  was  the  theatre,  standing  on  a  knoll 
with  trees  growing  on  its  sides.  A  curved,  flower- 
bordered  road  led  up  to  its  entrance. 

Conditions  rapidly  improved.  There  weren't 
nearly  so  many  people,  and  what  there  were  were 
of  a  quieter  type. 

Half-way  up  the  knoll  Baron  turned  about  for 
a  bird's-eye  view  of  the  whole  place.  But  be- 
neath them  a  Midway  blazed,  and  he  caught  sight 
of  a  lady  on  a  platform  before  a  tent,  who  was 
coning  a  very  large  snake  about  her  neck,  while 
a  little  farther  away  a  princess — she  seemed  to  be — 
in  red  satin  and  spangles,  sat  wearily  on  a  palanquin 
on  top  of  a  camel. 

He  thought  it  would  be  as  well  for  his  mother 
not  to  see  these  choicest  fascinations  of  Fairyland. 
He  directed  attention  to  the  theatre  ahead,  which 
was  modelled  after  what  is  left  of  a  famous  Roman 
ruin.  And  so  they  completed  their  climb  without 
looking  back. 

A  grove  surrounded  the  theatre,  and  under  the 
trees  there  were  chairs  and  tables. 

"Chairs!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Baron.  "They're 
the  first  thing  I've  seen.  .  .  ."  She  turned  one 
about  and  sat  down. 

"  Fine  idea,  that,"  said  Baron.  "  Let's  all  sit  down." 

"It's  plenty  of  time  to  go  in  when  you  hear  the 
overture  begin,"  observed  Bonnie  May;  whereat 
Mrs.  Baron  regarded  her  with  rather  a  blank  ex- 
pression; but  she  said  nothing. 

223 


Bonnie  May 

From  the  portals  of  the  theatre  strolled  Thorn- 
burg,  and  instantly  his  glance  took  in  Baron  and 
his  party. 

It  was  Baggot  who  observed  that  the  manager 
seemed  about  to  join  them. 

The  manager  did.  He  came  toward  them  across 
the  grass  and  shook  hands  with  Baron.  He  was 
smiling  almost  benignantly. 

Baron  introduced  his  party.  Thomburg  was 
rather  casually  cordial  in  his  manner.  Then  he 
took  in  the  fact  that  the  child  in  the  party  was 
Bonnie  May. 

"So  this  is  the  little  girl?"  he  inquired.  He 
drew  her  to  his  side  and  flushed  with  pleasure. 
His  entire  appearance  changed.  "I  had  an  idea 
she  might  be  over  to  the  house  to-night,"  he  added, 
turning  to  Baron. 

"No,"  said  Baron,  "she  preferred  to  come  with 
us." 

Bonnie  May  shrank  slightly  from  the  stranger's 
touch;  but  after  she  had  regarded  him  critically 
she  yielded  to  it.  He  seemed  rather  a  good  sort, 
she  thought.  He  wasn't  loud,  and  he  didn't  take 
things  for  granted  too  much. 

But  Mrs.  Baron  stiffened  and  seemed  bent  upon 
bringing   upon   the   entire  group   that   discomfort 
and  embarrassment  the  creation  of  which  is  one 
of  the  finer  social  accomplishments.     "  Sit  down,  • 
Bonnie  May,"  she  said.    She  patted  an  unoccupied  ; 
chair  with  her  hand  and  smiled.    There  was  some- ! 

224 


Bonnie  May  Looks  Back 

•I 
thing  in  her  manner  which  caused  Bonnie  May 

to  regard  her  with  surprise. 

Thomburg,  too,  observed  her  rather  dehberately. 
For  an  instant  he  seemed  to  forget  himself,  to  be 
absent-minded.  Thornburg  was  of  that  type  of 
man  who  seems  to  surrender  unconditionally  when 
a  woman  employs  strategies,  but  who  resolves  to 
do  what  he  pleases  when  her  back  is  turned. 

Baron  resented  his  mother's  attitude,  her  de- 
cision not  to  be  communicative  and  gracious.  He 
stood  by  the  manager's  side  and  spoke  of  the  splen- 
did picture  the  garden  presented.  For  a  moment 
they  stood  in  silence,  looking  down  upon  the  tangle 
of  many-colored  Hghts  which  marked  the  course 
of  the  Midway. 

The  steady  stream  of  people  who  had  been  en- 
tering the  theatre  had  begun  to  diminish,  and  now 
the  notes  of  the  overture  arose — the  "Poet  and 
Peasant." 

Bonnie  May  sprang  to  her  feet.  "There  it  is,'* 
she  said,  and  both  Baron  and  Thomburg  smiled 
down  on  her.  Then  Thomburg  escorted  the  party 
into  the  theatre. 

Baron  noted  the  immense  audience,  sitting  in 
a  blaze  of  Hght;  a  fairly  quiet  and  pleasant-appear- 
ing audience.  He  noted,  too,  that  where  one  might 
have  expected  to  find  walls  at  right  and  left  there 
were  vast  open  spaces,  through  which  stars,  be- 
yond waving  horizontal  branches,  were  visible. 
Rolled  canvas,  which  might  be  let  down  in  case  of 

225 


Bonnie  May- 
rain,  rattled  slightly  in  the  breeze,  and  one  or  two 
disturbed  sparrows  darted  into  the  place  and  rested, 
chirping,  on  a  girder  overhead. 

Then  Baron  had  eyes  only  for  Bonnie  May,  who 
had  undergone  some  strange  sort  of  transformation 
the  moment  s!he  had  entered  the  theatre. 

Her  eyes  were  enough  to  thrill  an  ordinary  world- 
weary  person.  Her  color  became  brilliant.  Then 
her  body  began  to  respond  to  some  overmastering 
influence.  One  might  have  thought  of  her  as  a 
httle  palfrey  about  to  enter  a  great  parade  with 
many  bands  in  it.  She  was  not  merely  proud  and 
happy;  she  was  quite  entranced  with  delight. 

When  the  usher,  with  the  manner  of  his  kind, 
darted  down  the  aisle  until  he  was  some  eight 
or  ten  steps  in  advance  of  the  party,  the  child 
hurried  forward  a  Uttle,  and  then  turned  about,  her 
face  ahght  with  eagerness;  and  suddenly  she  stood 
still  until  Mrs.  Baron  came  up  to  her,  and  seized 
that  amazed  lady's  hand  and  laid  her  cheek  against 
it  and  patted  it  rapidly. 

"It's  all  right,  child,"  whispered  Mrs.  Baron 
wamingly,  in  dread  of  a  scene;  but  her  voice  was 
like  a  caress,  and  her  eyes  were  beaming  with  joy. 
She  was  thinking  how  Httle  she  had  had  to  sacrifice, 
and  how  very  well  worth  while  the  sacrifice  had 
been.  Truly,  it  would  have  been  cruel  to  deprive 
the  child  of  a  pleasure  which  meant  so  much  to 
her. 

The  man  who  stood  with  his  big  bass  fiddle  in 
226 


Bonnie  May  Looks  Back 

the  orchestra  pit  was  making  a  dreadful  noise  on 
one  string — sawing  it  rapidly — ^when  the  usher 
flung  down  a  row  of  seats.  Mrs.  Baron  went  in 
first,  followed  by  Bonnie  May.  Baron  took  the 
next  seat,  leaving  the  aisle  seat  to  Baggot. 

The  overture  ended,  and  the  orchestra  leader 
laid  down  his  baton,  while  he  and  his  musicians 
began  to  adjust  themselves  in  easy  positions  in 
their  chairs. 

Somewhere  a  man  at  a  switchboard  performed  his 
duty,  and  one  Ught  after  another  went  out  until  the 
theatre  was  in  darkness. 

Then  the  curtain  lifted. 

But  to  Baron  it  all  meant  less  the  story  of  Paula 
Tanqueray,  up  there  on  the  stage,  than  it  did  the 
story  of  Bonnie  May,  close  by  his  side.  Tanqueray's 
friends  discussed  his  approaching  marriage  and  his 
bride  to  be;  the  argimaent  of  the  drama  received 
its  simple  statement,  and  presently  the  ill-starred 
woman  appeared.  But  through  it  all  Baron  knew 
that  his  thoughts  were  chiefly  with  the  child  by 
his  side. 

She  was  so  completely  lost  in  the  rapture  of  every 
passing  moment  that  he  felt  a  strange  imeasiness. 
Here  was  something  more  than  a  normal  enjoy- 
ment. She  had  the  extraordinary  gift  of  being  able 
to  appraise  the  value  of  the  make-beUeve — to  gauge 
the  trutJi  of  every  look  and  word  and  movement, 
and  at  the  same  time  to  lose  herself  in  the  story. 
She  clasped  and  imclasped  her  hands  in  silent, 

227 


Bonnie  May 

painful  intensity;  there  were  little,  strange  move- 
ments of  her  head  as  a  result  of  her  acute  sym- 
pathy with  the  work  of  the  playwright  and  players 
alike.  And  sometimes  she  hung  upon  a  word  that 
halted,  and  smiled  with  rapture  when  a  difficulty 
was  surmounted. 

Baron  thought,  grotesquely  enough,  of  a  little 
fish  fallen  from  a  hook  into  the  grass  for  a  breath- 
less moment,  and  then  getting  back  into  its  proper 
element  and  rushing  away  with  a  mighty  flicking 
of  tail  and  fins. 

Bonnie  May  had  been  of  the  theatre  once,  and 
Baron  reahzed,  as  he  watched  her,  that  somehow, 
sometime,  she  would  return  to  it  again. 

When,  at  the  end,  the  report  of  a  pistol  was 
heard,  and  the  stepdaughter  of  Mrs.  Tanqueray  came 
screaming  upon  the  stage,  Mrs.  Baron  set  her  hps 
in  a  hard  line. 

"Nobody  to  blame  but  herself!"  was  her  com- 
ment.   She,  too,  had  been  deeply  impressed  by  the' 
play. 

But  the  larger  faith  of  the  Httle  girl  asserted  it- 
self. "Oh,  don't  say  that!"  she  begged.  "She'd 
have  been  all  right,  if  they'd  really  loved  her  in 
spite  of  all!" 

It  was  the  reality  of  it  that  held  her.  Baron  per- 
ceived— or  her  abihty  to  see  it  as  something  real. 

The  puppets,  the  make-beheve — these  were  off 
the  stage,  for  Bonnie  May.  The  truth  and  beauty 
and  reality  were  on  it. 

228 


Bonnie  May  Looks  Back 

He  smiled  thoughtfully  as  they  all  filed  up  the 
aisle,  amid  a  babble  of  voices.  The  child  might  be 
wrong;  but  was  it  Strange  that  so  glorious  an  ignis 
fatuus  should  have  power  to  lead  her  on  to  the 
end? 

As  they  left  the  theatre  they  passed  Thomburg, 
standing  near  the  entrance  alone.  For  an  instant 
there  was  a  peculiar,  inscrutable  expression  in  his 
eyes;  then  he  pulled  himself  together  and  smiled 
and  lifted  his  hat.  But  after  this  perfunctory 
greeting  was  over,  the  manager  steadily  regarded 
Mrs.  Baron,  who  did  not  look  at  him. 

That  quiet,  masked  glance  made  Baron  uncom- 
fortable, and  instinctively  he  stooped  and  took 
Bormie  May  firmly  by  the  hand. 

In  another  moment  they  were  lost  in  the  throng. 


229 


CHAPTER  XX 

CONCERNING  LAUGHTER 

The  next  afternoon  Baron  received  a  very  cordial 
letter  from  Thornburg.  The  manager  was  de- 
lighted with  the  fine  account  of  the  Fairyland  open- 
ing that  had  been  printed  in  the  Times.  That  was 
the  sum  and  substance  of  his  letter.  There  was 
nothing  about  the  compact  to  which  Baron  was  a 
party. 

"Just  the  same,  he's  got  something  up  his  sleeve," 
Baron  mused.  And  his  next  thought  was:  "But 
I've  kept  my  word.  If  she  doesn't  want  to  go 
there's  no  reason  why  I  should  urge  her  to.  She's 
getting  along  aU  right  where  she  is.'* 

Two  weeks  sHpped  by,  and  then  one  day  at  noon 
as  Baron  was  emerging  from  the  lobby  of  the  Times 
building  he  heard  a  famihar  voice  in  the  street. 
The  Thornburg  automobile  stopped  and  the  man- 
ager pushed  the  door  open. 

"Been  to  lunch  yet?"  called  Thornburg. 

"Just  going,"  was  the  response.  Baron  would 
have  prevaricated  if  he'd  had  time  to  think;  but 
now  it  was  too  late  and  he  made  the  best  of  the 
matter  as  Thornburg  pulled  him  into  the  car. 

230 


Concerning  Laughter 

"  Come  with  me,"  said  the  manager,  and  then  he 
became  silent  as  he  threaded  the  machine  through 
the  down-town  congestion. 

He  did  not  speak  again  mitil  they  were  in  a  com- 
paratively quiet  restaurant  whose  patronage  was 
drawn  chiefly  from  theatrical  people  who  did  not 
come  in  until  late  in  the  evening. 

Both  men  observed  that  they  were  to  have  the 
place  practically  to  themselves,  and  then  Baron 
was  promptly  given  to  understand  what  it  was  that 
Thornburg  wanted. 

"That's  really  a  fine  little  girl,"  said  the  manager, 
frankly  regarding  Baron  across  the  table. 

"You  mean  Bonnie  May.  Yes,  she  certainly  is. 
The  fact  is,  you  can't  begin  to  realize  how  uncom- 
monly fine  she  is  until  you  know  her  better." 

"Well,  that's  just  the  point.  When  am  I  going 
to  know  her  better?    When  is  she  coming  to  us?" 

Baron  gave  his  whole  attention  to  the  waiter  for 
a  minute.  He  was  trying  to  think  of  a  response 
that  wouldn't  concede  too  much.  He  held  the  strong 
cards  now.    It  would  be  foolish  to  relinquish  them. 

The  waiter  was  gone  now. 

"The  fact  is,  Thornburg,"  said  Baron,  "she 
doesn't  seem  at  all  eager  to  accept  your  invitation. 
I've  told  her  about  it,  and  explained  what  a  fine 
place  you've  got,  and  all  that — ^and  she  just  changes 
the  subject.  You  know  I  didn't  agree  to  force  her 
to  act.  That's  just  what  we  both  agreed  not  to 
do." 

231 


Bonnie  May 

"Childish  timidity — the  first  time,"  said  Thorn- 
bm-g.  "If  you'd  bring  her  over  once  she'd  get  over 
feehng  that  way." 

"She's  just  about  as  timid  as  a  sunbeam.  She'd 
go  anywhere  if  she  thought  she'd  enjoy  it.  The 
fact  is,  she's  absolutely  satisfied  where  she  is,  at 
present.  Let  the  matter  rest  awhile.  When  things 
become  monotonous  I'll  call  her  attention  again 
to  your  invitation." 

Thornburg  shook  out  his  napkin  violently.  "That 
sounds  like  beating  about  the  bush,"  he  said.  "You 
know  how  to  get  a  child  started.  '  Oh,  look ! '  you 
say  to  them.  Get  them  excited.  Then  they'll  do 
anything." 

"I  don't  want  to  get  her  excited,"  replied  Baron 
dryly. 

"Yes,  that's  just  it!"  retorted  the  other.  "A 
little  excitement  would  be  good  for  her.  I  see  the 
advantage  of  having  her  at  your  place  part  of  the 
time,  but,  I  see  the  advantage  of  having  her  with 
us,  too.  It  would  be  a  shame  if  she  ever  got  fo 
thinking  highly  of  some  of  this  polite  flubdub — " 
He  checked  himself  in  embarrassment  and  brushed 
imaginary  crumbs  from  his  waistcoat. 

"Won't  you  enhghten  me  as  to  what  you  mean 
by 'pohte  flubdub'?" 

Thornburg  became  almost  defiant.  "Being  chilly, 
for  one  thing.  And  not  seeing  people.  That  kind 
of  business.  It  used  to  be  all  right,  but  it's  out  of 
date   now.     Class   distinctions   and    that   sort   of 

232 


Concerning  Laughter 

thing — that's  all  done  away  with.  You  might  as 
well  hang  a  knitted  tidy  up  in  an  art  display. 
Nothing  but  the  goods  counts  these  days." 

"No  doubt  you're  right,"  responded  Baron 
briefly.  He  felt  it  would  be  impossible  for  him  to 
admit  that  he  saw  any  special  appHcation  in  what 
Thornburg  had  said. 

A  silence  followed.  Baron  permitted  a  consid- 
erable degree  of  arrogance  to  stifle  his  friendher 
thoughts.  Thornburg  had  spoken  offensively; 
which  was  rather  less  excusable  than  "poHte  flub- 
dub." 

Yet,  Baron  reflected,  nothing  in  Thomburg's 
manner  could  alter  the  fact  that  it  might  be  greatly 
to  Bonnie  May's  advantage  to  accept  the  hospital- 
ity of  the  manager  and  his  wife. 

The  impression  of  the  child  in  the  threatre  not 
long  ago  recurred  to  him — the  imperative  call  upon 
her  which  the  skill  of  the  players  had  exerted. 

"You're  right,  Thornbiurg,"  he  said  finally. 
"I've  been  procrastinating — that's  all.  I'll  speak 
to  her  again.  The  next  time  I'll  even  say  'Oh, 
look!' — or  words  to  that  effect.  In  your  own  ex- 
pressive phrase,  we'U  give  her  a  chance  to  decide 
which  of  us  'has  the  better  attraction  to  offer.'  " 

This  new  promise  weighed  heavily  on  his  con- 
science that  afternoon  when  he  went  home;  for 
Bonnie  May,  unusually  radiant,  was  waiting  for 
him  at  the  door. 

233 


Bonnie  May 

"Mr.  Baggot  was  here  to-day,"  she  began.  "He 
left  his  play.  And  he  talked  to  me  about  it.  He 
said  you  might  keep  it  as  long  as  you  liked." 

"All  very  kind  of  Mr.  Baggot."  Baron  thought- 
fully disposed  of  his  hat  and  cane.  When  he  turned 
to  the  child  again  there  was  a  little  furrow  between 
his  eyes. 

"Bonnie  May,"  he  began,  "do  you  remember  my 
teUing  you  some  time  ago  that  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Thorn- 
burg  would  be  glad  to  have  you  visit  them  ? " 

"Yes,  I  remember." 

"They  thought  possibly  you  might  have  forgot- 
ten.   They  asked  me  to  remind  you." 

"Thank  you.  And  he's  made  the  prettiest  copy 
of  it,  with  red  lines  drawn  under  the  words  you 
don't  have  to  learn.  Can't  we  go  up-stairs  and 
see  it?    I  put  it  in  your  room." 

"Yes,  we'll  go  up-stairs."  He  was  irritated  by 
her  supreme  indifference  to  the  matter  which  he 
had  tried  to  bring  to  her  attention.  He  meant  to 
have  this  thing  out  definitely. 

She  rushed  away  in  advance  of  him  so  impet- 
uously that  he  paused  and  looked  after  her  in 
amazement.  The  furrow  disappeared  and  he  was 
smiling. 

And  then  the  whole  strange  situation  struck  him 
with  renewed  force.  Was  she  really  the  daughter 
of  Thomburg,  and  was  he  afraid  to  claim  her?  Or 
was  there  no  connection  at  all  between  her  and  the 
manager,  and  did  he.  Baron,  hold  the  trump-cards 

234 


Concerning  Laughter 

in  that  game  which  meant  the  permanent  posses- 
sion of  her? 

If  she  were  Thornburg's,  why  shouldn't  Mrs. 
Thomburg  frankly  say  to  her  husband:  "I  know 
everything — ^but  I  still  want  her"?  It  occurred 
to  him  that  it  might  be  his  duty  to  suggest  just 
that  course  to  her.  But  old  habits  of  restraint 
were  too  strong  for  him.  After  all,  he  didn't  know 
the  Thornburgs  very  well.  He  scarcely  knew  Mrs. 
Thomburg  at  all. 

Moreover,  "it  was  a  very  pretty  quarrel  as  it 
stood."  He  had  been  frank  and  aboveboard  every 
step  of  the  way.  If  others  could  not  or  would  not 
be  so,  that  was  no  concern  of  his. 

He  went  up  into  the  attic,  which  was  made 
golden  by  a  flood  of  late  afternoon  sunlight.  In 
truth  he  found  himself  in  an  atmosphere  that  was 
delightful  in  its  warmth  and  aloofness  and  quie- 
tude. 

Bonnie  May  hurried  toward  him,  the  manu- 
script in  her  hands.  She  was  trembling  with 
eagerness.  A  fooHsh  little  creature  in  some  re- 
spects, surely,  thought  Baron. 

He  glanced  at  the  title-page  and  turned  half  a 
dozen  pages  aimlessly.  And  when  he  glanced  at 
Bonnie  May  he  was  amazed  by  her  egression  of 
wonder,  of  distress. 

^"You  don't  seem  to  be  interested  in  it!"   said 
she. 

"Not  a  great  deal — ^just  now.    I'd  have  to  get 

235 


Bonnie  May 

into  it,  you  know.  When  I've  more  time.  Be- 
sides," he  tossed  the  manuscript  aside,  "I'm  deeply 
interested  in  something  else  just  now." 

She  quickly  evinced  a  pretty  spirit  of  submis- 
sion. In  response  to  his  gesture  she  sat  down  near 
the  window,  opposite  him. 

"I've  been  thinking  about  you  to-day.  Se- 
riously." 

"I  hope  I  haven't  been  queering  anything?" 

"Not  a  bit  of  it.  We're  aU  very  much  pleased 
with  you." 

There  may  have  been  something  of  patronage 
in  the  tone.  At  any  rate,  she  rephed  with  a  Httle 
smile:  "Thank  you.  You  know  an  artist  always 
strives  to  please."  As  he  regarded  her  quietly  she 
added  more  earnestly:  "It's  strange  that  I  got 
by,  too,  when  you  come  to  think  about  it.  I  was 
hardly  prepared  to  play  a  nice  part  when  I  came 
here.  Anyway,  not  a  part  where  you  have  to  have 
so  much — ^what  the  critics  caU  restraint.  You  can 
take  it  from  me,  the  nice  parts  aren't  half  as  fat 
as  the  nasty  parts." 

He  did  not  remove  his  eyes  from  her  face.  He 
had  the  thought  that  she  was  very  far  away  from 
him,  after  all.  From  all  of  them.  "I  wish,"  he 
said,  "you  wouldn't  always  talk  as  if  you  were 
only  taking  part  in  a  play.  Somehow  it  doesn't 
seem  quite  friendly.  We're  trying  to  make  this  a 
real  home  for  you.  We're  trying  to  be  real  friends. 
We're  trying  to  live  a  real  life.    Why  not  look  at  it 

236 


Concerning  Laughter 

that  way  when  you're  with  me?  Wouldn't  that 
seem  f riendher  ?  " 

She  looked  at  him  with  a  little  flicker  of  anxiety 
in  her  eyes.  ''You  see,"  she  said,  "I  can't  help 
thinking  aU  the  time  that  everything  I  do  must 
be  like  a  nice  ingenue  part,  and  being  afraid  that 
you'll  come  home  some  day  and  find  I've  been 
doing  some  soubrette  stuff." 

He  shook  his  head  and  abruptly  assumed  a  new 
attitude.  "Did  you  understand  me  clearly  when 
I  said  that  Mrs.  Thomburg  wishes  you  to  visit 
her?" 

"I  think  I  didn't  pay  much  attention,"  she  ad- 
mitted, looking  away  from  him.  "Did  you — ^wish 
me  to  go?" 

"I  think  it  would  be  very  nice.  If  you  didn't 
like  them,  you  needn't  ever  go  again."  He  tried 
to  speak  lightly. 

She  brought  her  eyes  to  his  now,  anxiously. 
"When  did  you  think  I  ought  to  go?"  she  asked. 

Baron  brought  his  chair  down  with  a  bump.  "I 
didn't  say  you  ought  to  go,  exactly.  Don't  put  it 
that  way.  I  only  thought  it  would  be  nice  and 
kind  of  you  to  go,  because  they  wish  it.  I'd  be 
anxious  to  have  you  come  back  quite  soon,  of 
course." 

"And — and  mother:  does  she  wish  me  to  go, 
too?" 

Her  use  of  that  word  brought  warmth  to  his 
heart.    "She  doesn't  wish  it.    Frankly,  I  think  she 

237 


Bonnie  May 

wotildn't  like  it  at  all.  But  I  think  she'd  con- 
sent." 

She  was  greatly  relieved.  She  leaned  forward 
and  patted  him  on  the  knee.  "I  was  afraid  you 
might  be  planning  to  cut  down  the  company,"  she 
said. 

He  looked  at  her  without  comprehending  readily. 

"I  mean,"  she  elaborated,  "I  thought  maybe  it 
was  a  case  of  cold  feet." 

He  flinched.  "Oh,  Bonnie  May!"  was  his  dis- 
approving rejoinder. 

"You  mean  it's  stale?"  she  asked.  The  ex- 
pression in  her  eyes  was  innocent,  perplexed. 

He  slowly  shook  his  head  in  despair,  and  then  he 
saw  the  swift  look  of  comprehension  that  bright- 
ened her  eyes. 

"Oh,  I  know,"  she  said.    "Knock-about  talk!" 

He  sprang  to  his  feet  and  thrust  his  chair  aside. 
"For  a  few  moments  I  would  be  very  glad  if  we 
might  use  the  English  language,"  he  said.  "I  was 
hopeful  of  arriving  at  an  understanding  with  you 
on  a  certain  simple  proposition." 

She  began  to  laugh  unrestrainedly,  after  an  in- 
stant of  shocked  silence.  She  "stared  him  out  of 
countenance,"  as  the  saying  is.  He  had  never 
heard  her  laugh  so  hilariously.  Yet  even  then  he 
could  not  be  blind  to  the  look  of  appeal  in  her 
eyes — appeal,  mingled  with  a  defiant  conscious- 
ness of  guilt. 

Then  she  became  grave  and  conciliatory.  "I'll 
238 


Concerning  Laughter 

go,"  she  said.  "It's  nothing,  after  all.  I  think  I 
get  you.  They've  been  after  you,  and  you  don't 
want  to  be  bothered  any  more.  I  think  we  ought 
to  get  it  over  with  as  soon  as  possible." 

"We  might  go  over  this  evening,  immediately 
after  dinner,"  he  suggested. 

She  fidgeted.  "But  you  know  I'll  have  to  come 
back  to-morrow  in  time  to  practise  my  music  les- 
son?" she  stipulated. 

Here  was  the  opportunity  to  prove  his  complete 
fairness — to  Thornburg.  "There's  a  piano  over 
there.    You  can  practise  there,  if  you  care  to." 

"No,  I'm  coming  back.  I  have  to  take  a  lesson 
from  Flora,  too — and  give  her  a  lesson." 

Baron  didn't  know  what  she  was  talking  about. 

"Flora  is  giving  me  lessons  in  reading,"  she  ex- 
plained.   "You  know  I'm  to  go  to  school  next  fall." 

"No  one  had  mentioned  it  to  me.  But  of  course 
you  wUl.  Everybody  goes  to  school.  And  about 
giving  her  a  lesson?"  he  added  weakly. 

"I'm  not  sure  I  ought  to  talk  about  that.  But 
why  not — to  you?  You  see,  I'm  teaching  her  how 
to  laugh." 

Baron  stared.  "Teaching  her  how  to  laugh!"  he 
echoed. 

She  was  immediately  on'^the  defensive.  "I  cer- 
tainly am.  You  must  have  seen  that  she  doesn't 
know  how ! " 

"Nonsense!  You're  talking  just  plain  non- 
sense!" 

239 


Bonnie  May 

"You  might  think  so.  A  good  many  people 
would.  But  I  wish  you  would  teU  me  how  many 
people  you  know  who  reaUy  laugh  right." 

"Right!  There's  no  question  of  laughing  right. 
People  laugh  when  there's  an  occasion  for  laugh- 
ing." 

"They  don't  really  laugh,  because  they  don't 
know  how.  And  very  few  people  know  anything 
about  the  right  occasion  to  laugh." 

"Meaning " 

"I  can  make  it  quite  plain.  You  see,  it's  a  cus- 
tom to  teach  children  how  to  talk,  and  some  are 
taught  how  to  sing.  I  say  nothing  about  the  silly 
things  that  are  taught  to  'speak  pieces,'  Heaven 
help  them.  They  are  taught  these  things  because 
they  wouldn't  know  how  to  do  them  right  if  they 
were  left  to  themselves.  They  try  to  talk  and 
they  try  to  sing,  and  they  get  it  all  wrong.  And 
then  they  are  taught." 

"That's  an  entirely  different  matter." 

"Not  at  all.    When  they  try  to  laugh  they  get 
it  all  wrong,  too,  but  nobody  thinks  it's  necessary - 
to  teach  them  any  better.    You  can  see  I'm  perfectly 
right." 

"I  think  what  you  say  is  quite  absurd." 

"It's  just  new  to  you,  that's  all.  You  know  per- 
fectly well  that  when  most  people  try  to  laugh  what 
they  really  do  is  to  cackle,  or  giggle,  or  shriek,  or  make 
horrible  noises  imtil  they  nearly  choke.  Women 
try"  not  to  cry,  because  it  makes  them  look  ugly. 

240 


Concerning  Laughter 

But  just  think  how  some  people  look  when  they 
laugh.  All  they  need  is  a  few  lessons  at  the  right 
time.  Then  they  know  how  to  laugh  naturally 
and  freely.  You  have  to  think  how  you  are  doing 
it  at  first.  Afterward  you  laugh  the  right  way 
without  thinking  at  all." 

"  'Ladies  and  gentlemen,  I  take  pleasure  in 
introducing  Mile.  Bonnie  May,  laughing  expert,'  " 
said  Baron  derisively. 

"A  very  fine  argument,"  responded  Bonnie  May, 
nodding  graciously.  "And  about  the  'occasion'  to 
laugh,"  she  persisted  seriously.  "There's  a  whole 
lot  to  be  said  about  that.  You  frame  up  a  speech 
with  a  lot  of  care — to  get  out  of  a  scrape,  or  to  make 
people  do  something  they  don't  want  to  do — or  for 
something  like  that.  You  ought  to  laugh  on  the 
same  principle.  Yet  when  most  people  tell  you 
about  laughing  at  anything  they  put  it  this  way: 
'I  couldn't  help  laughing!'  You  know  you  smile 
sometimes  when  you  don't  mean  it,  just  to  help 
things  along;  or  you  say  you  pity  people,  or  you 
say  something  to  encourage  them,  for  the  same 
reason.  In  the  same  way,  you  ought  to  laugh  some- 
times when  you're  not  really  amused.  If  you  are 
downhearted  or  afraid  you  can  hide  it  by  laugh- 
ing. And  you  can  make  people  take  a  sensible 
view  of  things  sometimes,  just  by  laughing  at  them. 
But  of  course,  you  have  to  know  how  to  do  it  right. 
If  you  bray  at  them,  or  giggle,  they'll  be  insulted, 
naturally." 

241 


Bonnie  May 

Baron  shook  his  head.  "Where  did  you  pick  it 
all  up  ?  "  he  asked. 

"I  didn't  'pick  it  up/  exactly.  Miss  Barry  took 
particular  pains  to  teach  it  to  me.  On  account  of 
my  work  mostly.  And  I  thought  a  lot  of  it  out  for 
myself." 

Before  Baron  had  time  to  make  any  response  to 
her  she  sprang  to  her  feet  and  picked  up  the  neg- 
lected manuscript.  AU  her  interests  were  imme- 
diately centred  in  it. 

She  turned  a  dozen  pages  rapidly.  Then  she 
paused  in  indecision  and  turned  back  a  page  or 
two.    She  was  anxiously  searching. 

"Here  it  is!"  she  cried.  She  was  much  relieved. 
"Please  read  that  to  me."  She  indicated  a  sen- 
tence. 

Baron  perceived  that  it  was  a  longish  passage — 
a  grandiloquent  flight  which  he  read  shamefacedly. 

She  stopped  him  on  the  word  "harbinger." 
"That's  the  word,"  she  said.    "Say  that  again." 

He  complied. 

"What  does  it  mean?"  she  wanted  to  know. 

He  had  scarcely  started  to  explain  when  she 
exclaimed,  "  Oh,  I  see !    Go  on." 

A  voice  interrupted  them:  Mrs.  Shepard,  an- 
nouncing that  dinner  was  ready. 

On  the  way  down-stairs  Bonnie  May  amazed 
Baron  by  repeating  in  its  entirety  the  passage  he 
had  read  to  her — "harbinger,"  and  all.  "  It's  pretty, 
isn't  it?"  said  she. 

242 


Concerning  Laughter 

In  the  lower  hall  Flora  joined  them.  Baron 
glanced  at  her  mischievously.  "I've  been  learning 
a  little  something  about  the  dark  deeds  that  are 
going  on  around  me,"  he  said. 

And  Flora,  as  she  preceded  the  other  two  into 
the  dining-room,  lifted  her  face  sUghtly  and  laughed 
in  a  manner  so  musical  and  mellow  that  Baron 
looked  after  her  in  amazement. 

He  felt  Bonnie  May's  hand  tugging  at  his,  and 
looking  at  her  he  perceived  that  she  had  laid  one 
finger  across  her  Kps  in  warning. 

He  understood.  He  wanted  to  laugh,  too.  But 
he  realized  that  he  did  not  know  how,  and  that, 
moreover,  this  was  not  the  proper  occasion. 


243 


CHAPTER  XXI 

AN  EXIT  AND  AN  ENTRANCE 

It  was  rather  a  pity  that  Bonnie  May  yielded  to 
an  impulse  to  go  out  and  have  a  little  talk  with 
Mrs.  Shepard  after  she  had  finished  her  dinner. 

It  was  a  pity,  because  she  also  yielded  to  an  im- 
pulse to  talk  confidentially  to  the  sympathetic  old 
servant,  and  as  a  result  she  received  an  entirely 
erroneous  impression. 

"I'm  going  away  for  a  visit,"  said  Bonnie  May, 
by  way  of  opening. 

"A  visit  I"  repeated  Mrs.  Shepard.  "Why, 
ain't  you  here  just  for  a  visit?" 

"Oh — ^yes!  Of  course!"  was  the  response,  given 
rather  blankly. 

"You  mean  you're  going  for  a  visit  somewhere 
else." 

"Yes,  that's  what  I  mean." 

There  was  silence  for  a  time,  while  Bonnie  May 
tried  to  realize  the  full  truth  of  what  Mrs.  Shepard 
had  said.  Yes,  she  was  merely  a  visitor  in  the 
mansion,  certainly.  And  they  had  probably  been 
regarding  her  in  that  light  all  the  time. 

A  fear  she  had  entertained  earHer  in  the  day  re- 
curred to  her.  "And  I  expect  they  may  be  getting 
tired  of  me,"  she  threw  out  tentatively. 

244 


An  Exit  and  an  Entrance 

Mrs.  Shepard  was  what  is  usually  called  a  sensible 
woman.  *'0h,  well,"  she  replied,  "you  know  how 
that  is.  When  you  are  a  visitor,  people  always 
treat  you  poHtely,  but,  of  course,  they  expect  you 
not  to  wear  your  welcome  out." 

"Of  course,"  assented  Bonnie  May.  She  didn't 
permit  Mrs.  Shepard  to  see  that  she  had  suddenly 
grown  horribly  imcomfortable. 

"You  know,  when  people  see  too  much  of  each 
other,  they — they  get  tired  of  each  other,"  added 
the  sensible  servant. 

"The  most  natiural  thing  in  the  world,"  agreed 
Bonnie  May.  She  felt  that  she  suddenly  hated 
Mrs.  Shepard  with  a  dreadful  hatred.  She  did 
not  at  all  realize  that  Mrs.  Shepard  was  innocently 
lajdng  down  a  general  proposition  which  she  had 
no  thought  of  applying  to  any  one  in  particular. 

StUl,  she  meant  to  behave  graciously.  "If  I 
should  ever  come  back  again,  you  won't  mind  if 
I  come  out  and  bake  a  Httle  cake  once  in  a  while?" 
she  asked.  She  was  achieving  her  most  friendly 
smile. 

Mrs.  Shepard  turned  toward  her  with  energy. 
"I  certainly  won't,"  she  declared.  There  were  no 
general  propositions  in  her  mind  now.  She  was 
saying  to  herself:  "Was  there  ever  such  a  cunning 
httle  thing?"  "And  I  do  hope  you'll  come  back — 
soon ! "  she  added. 

Bonnie  May  nodded  brightly  and  entered  the 
dining-room.    She  paused  to  adjust  an  article  or 

245 


Bonnie  May 

two  on  the  table.  She  tried  to  assume  the  maimer 
of  one  who  is  quite  Hght-hearted.  She  was  pre- 
paring herself  to  play  her  part  properly  when  she 
joined  the  family  up-stairs. 

They  were  all  assembled  in  the  sitting-room,  and 
each  was  silent  and  self-centred  when  Baron  dropped 
the  evening  paper  to  the  floor  and  addressed  Bonnie 
May  when  she  entered  the  room,  in  the  manner  of 
one  who  has  forgotten  something. 

"You're  not  ready  to  go  with  me  to  the  Thorn- 
burgs',"  he  said.  "You  know  we  ought  to  be 
starting  before  long." 

The  effect  of  this  casual  utterance  was  quite 
electrifying.  The  elder  Baron  dropped  his  paper, 
also,  and  removed  his  glasses.  Flora,  searching 
through  a  box  of  letters  with  some  more  or  less 
definite  end  in  view,  permitted  several  envelopes 
with  their  contents  to  slip  to  the  floor.  She  turned 
a  gaze  of  marked  disfavor  upon  her  brother.  Mrs. 
Baron  merely  swallowed  with  difficulty  and  looked 
decidedly  uncomfortable. 

Bonnie  May  felt  the  tension  in  the  atmosphere. 
They  were  trying  to  be  nice  and  poHte  about  it, 
she  decided.  "I  only  have  to  put  my  hat  on,"  she 
said.  She  succeeded  wholly  in  creating  the  im- 
pression that  she  was  deUghted  with  their  planning, 
as  usual. 

Mrs.  Baron  arose  with  a  httle  tremor  in  her 
limbs.  Her  attitude  became  that  of  one  who  is 
tenderly  maternal  and  pathetically  old.    She  bent 

246 


An  Exit  and  an  Entrance 

over  and  took  the  child's  hands  in  hers.  "My 
dear,"  she  said,  "are  you  quite  sure  you  are  wilUng 
to  go?" 

Bonnie  May  looked  into  her  eyes  and  smiled. 
She  was  grateful  for  this  proof  of  kindness.  They 
were  the  nicest  people,  truly !  They  weren't  going 
to  permit  her  to  feel  offended.  "Oh,  yes !"  she  said 
brightly. 

Mrs.  Baron  released  her  hands  and  turned  away. 

"I  think  it  will  be  very  nice  to  go,"  added  Bonnie 
May.  "You  know,  when  people  see  too  much  of 
one  another,  they — they  get  tired  of  one  another!" 

"I  dare  say!"  responded  Mrs.  Baron.  She  was 
determined  the  imgrateful  Uttle  thing  shouldn't  see 
how  wounded  she  was.  "Well,  if  you're  to  go  to 
the  Thornburgs,  I  ought  to  see  that  you  are  present- 
able." 

She  and  the  child  disappeared,  Mrs.  Baron  lead- 
ing the  way  and  Bonnie  May  looking  back  over 
her  shoulder  with  a  smile. 

"Extraordinary!"  said  the  elder  Baron. 

"She's  certainly  a  puzzle  to  me,"  said  Baron. 
"Maybe  the  Thornburgs  can  do  better  with  her." 

"Oh,  don't  judge  her  just  by  that  one  tactless 
speech!"  exclaimed  Flora.  "Don't  forget  what  a 
little  thing  she  is." 

Then  silence  fell  in  the  room,  and  the  typical 
Baron  existence  was  maintained  until  the  mistress 
of  the  house  returned,  guiding  Bonnie  May  serenely 
before  her — ^Bonnie  May  in  her  best  dress,  and  in 

347 


Bonnie  May 

a  saucy  straw  hat  decorated  with  silk  pansies,  and 
with  a  ridiculous  Httle  hand-satchel  depending  from 
her  hooked  forefinger. 

''All  right,"  said  Baron,  leading  the  way  toward 
the  stairs.  He  had  an  idea  that  words  had  better 
be  used  sparingly. 

But  at  the  door  the  departing  guest  turned  for 
a  last  look,  and  instead  of  the  masks  of  affable 
politeness  she  expected  to  behold  there  was  instead 
a  look  of  unmistakable  regret  on  every  face.  Regret 
which  amounted  to  actual  grief,  so  far  as  Mrs. 
Baron  and  Flora  were  concerned. 

Surely  they  weren't  glad  to  see  her  go!  There 
must  be  a  mistake.  .  .  . 

She  clasped  her  hands  and  leaned  forward  in  an 
attitude  of  great  earnestness.  "You  know  how  I 
love  you!"  she  cried.  Her  voice  almost  failed 
her. 

Mrs.  Baron  came  forward,  all  her  resentment 
gone.  "Indeed,  we  do,"  she  declared.  "There, 
you're  not  to  go  away  feeling  badly.  I'm  very 
sorry  you  feel  that  you  ought  to  go.  And  we'll 
be  very  anxious  to  have  you  come  back  as  soon 
as  you  possibly  can." 

"Oh,  thank  you  so  much!"  She  lifted  impulsive 
arms  to  Mrs.  Baron's  neck  and  hugged  her.  She 
looked  back  at  the  others,  and  they  could  see  that 
there  was  happiness  in  her  eyes  as  well  as  tears. 

Then  she  was  gone,  in  Baron's  wake.  The  sound 
of  her  voice,  anxiously  questioning,  drifted  up  the 

248 


An  Exit  and  an  Entrance 

stairs  until  it  was  suddenly  quieted  by  the  closing 
of  the  front  door. 

"I'm  afraid  we'll  have  to  go  out  on  a  street-car," 
said  Baron.  "When  you  want  to  come  back,  the 
Thornburgs  will  probably  send  you  in  an  auto- 
mobile." 

She  clasped  her  hands.    "Fine!"  said  she. 

Baron  frowned — a  fact  which  she  remarked.  "I 
wasn't  thinking  about  the  automobile,"  she  hast- 
ened to  assure  him. 

"Why  the  unconcealed  rapture,  then?'* 

"Oh,  I  thought  you  might  be  starting  out  to 
lose  me,  as  you  would  a  cat  or  a  dog,  you  know. 
I'm  glad  there'll  be  a  way  for  me  to  get  back." 

Baron  refused  to  see  any  humor  in  her  remark. 
"I  wish  you'd  quit  looking  at  it  like  that,"  he  said. 
"Some  day  you'll  understand  better  why  I  think 
it  is  a  good  thing  for  you  to  be  friendly  with  the 
Thornburgs.  Just  now  you  may  rest  assured  that 
we're  going  to  miss  you."  He  realized  that  he  was 
being  rather  serious,  and  he  tried  to  end  his  ob- 
servations more  cheerfully.  "And  whenever  it 
pleases  you  to  honor  us  with  your  presence  again, 
you'll  find  the  latch-string,  et  cetera,  et  cetera." 

There  was  a  very  pleasant  old  garden  at  the 
rear  of  the  Thomburg  residence — a,  fairly  roomy 
region  of  old  trees  and  vines  and  rustic  seats  and 
dreams.  In  the  midst  of  this  sylvan  scene  stood  a 
very  old,  friendly  apple-tree,  and  beneath  this,  in 

249 


Bonnie  May 

the  evening  dusk  through  which  Baron  and  Bonnie 
May  were  escorted  out  into  the  garden,  sat  Mrs. 
Thornburg. 

Thomburg  had  received  them,  and  it  was  his 
idea  that  it  would  be  a  fine  thing  for  the  two  guests 
to  take  Mrs.  Thornburg  unawares. 

She  regarded  the  visitors  rather  wearily  at  first 
as  they  emerged  from  the  shadows  and  stood  be- 
fore her.  Then  she  recognized  Baron,  and  her  face 
brightened  wonderfully.  There  was  a  child  with 
him,  and  of  course  it  would  be  the  child. 

She  arose  from  her  many-cushioned  seat  and 
leaned  a  Uttle  forward,  while  Bonnie  May  regarded 
her  with  earnest  eyes. 

"You  see,  we're  here!"  said  Baron,  tr^'ing  to 
strike  a  Kght  and  cheerful  note. 

Mrs.  Thomburg  scarcely  seemed  to  notice  him. 
"Yes,"  she  said  dreamily.  She  did  not  remove  her 
eyes  from  Bonnie  May's. 

It  was  the  child  who  completed  her  scrutiny 
first.  She  glanced  about  her  appraisingly.  "A 
very  beautiful  exterior  you  have  here,"  she  re- 
marked, somewhat  loftily. 

Mrs.  Thomburg  smiled  rapturously  at  this.  A 
warm  hue  stole  into  her  cheeks. 

"I'm  glad  you  like  it,"  she  said.  She  glanced 
at  Baron  now,  with  joyous  wonder  in  her  eyes. 
"We  think  it's  pretty,"  she  added.  "It  might  make 
you  think  of  Hans  Christian  Andersen's  fairy-tales, 
mightn't  it?"     It  was  plain  that  she  was  feeling 

250 


An  Exit  and  an  Entrance 

her  way  cautiously.  "We  might  imagine  we  were 
the  children  who  played  under  the  juniper-tree — 
though  I'm  not  sure  an  apple-tree  would  pass  for 
a  juniper- tree." 

Bonnie  May  nodded  amiably.  "Or  it  might 
remind  you  of  a  Shakespeare  setting,"  she  sug- 
gested. 

The  woman  regarded  her  anew  with  a  look  of 
wonder,  and  pique,  and  dehght;  and  then  it  was 
evident  that  she  had  reached  the  limits  of  her  re- 
straint. With  hands  that  trembled  she  drew  the 
child  slowly  toward  her,  xmtil  she  had  the  radiant 
face  pressed  against  her  breast. 

"Dear  child,  do  try  to  love  me,  won't  you?" 
she  pleaded,  and  Baron  saw  that  her  face  twitched, 
and  that  her  eyes  were  offering  a  prayer  to  the  soft 
sky  in  which  the  first  stars  of  evening  were  just 
blossoming. 

Then,  almost  stealthily,  he  left  them. 

Baggot  was  waiting  for  him  in  front  of  the  house 
when  he  reached  home.  To  be  exact,  the  young 
playwright  was  sitting  on  the  front  step,  nervously 
puffing  a  cigarette. 

"What  took  you  out  this  time  in  the  evening?" 
he  demanded. 

"I've  been  taking  Bonnie  May  for  a  visit." 
"Oh ! — ^her.    I  wanted  to  ask  you.    Who  is  she?" 
Baron  was  unlocking  the  door.     "Her  name  is 
Bonnie  May,"  he  said. 

251 


Bonnie  May 

"Oh,  I  know  that.  I  mean,  who  is  she?  A 
grandchild,  or  something?" 

"I  haven't  any  grandchildren.  Suppose  we  go 
into  the  house." 

"I  don't  see  why  I  shouldn't  know  who  she  is. 
It  seems  a  pity  to  me  that  you  can't  say  some- 
thing." Baggot  threw  his  cigarette  into  the  street 
and  followed  Baron  into  the  house  and  up  into  the 
attic.    Arrived  there  he  renewed  his  attack. 

"While  it  seems  improbable  that  you  can  add 
anything  to  the  very  explicit  account  you  have 
given  me  of  Bonnie  May,  I'd  like  to  say  that  I'm 
curious  to  know  who  she  is." 

Baron  turned  upon  him  quietly.  "In  view  of 
your  unchallengeable  right  to  ask  questions  about  a 
guest  who  happens  to  be  in  this  house,  I  will  explain 
that  she  is  an  actress  by  profession,  and  that  being 
out  of  an  engagement  just  now,  she  is  accepting  our 
hospitality." 

Baggot  was  undisturbed.  He  exclaimed:  "Well, 
I  thought !" 

"You  thought ?" 

"That  I  recognized  her!  Her  ways,  I  mean. 
You  could  tell  there  was  something  about  her.  .  .  ." 

"Well,"  concluded  Baron,  "now  let's  see  what's 
up."  He  had  turned  on  the  light,  and  now  he 
shoved  a  chair  in  Baggot's  direction. 

"What  do  you  think  of  the  play?"  demanded 
Baggot. 

"I  haven't  read  it  yet." 
252 


"Dear  child,  do  try  to  love  me,  won't  you?" 


An  Exit  and  an  Entrance 

Baggot  laughed  lamely  and  his  whole  bearing 
expressed  contempt.  "You  don't  seem  to  be  at 
all  excited  about  it!"  he  complained. 

Baron  made  no  response  to  that.  He  was  won- 
dering where  Baggot  got  his  enthusiasm  for  things. 

"Well,  the  point  is,"  continued  the  other,  "I've 
got  a  producer,  and  it's  to  be  put  on  right  away. 
Over  at  the  Palace.  They've  got  a  summer  stock 
company,  you  know.  They're  going  to  give  it  a 
trial  performance." 

Baron  was  surprised.  "I  congratulate  you,"  he 
said.  "I  supposed  such  things  were  pretty  hard  to 
manage." 

Baggot  explained  with  complete  frankness.  "I 
know  that.  You  see,  I've  got  an  uncle  who  is 
financially  interested  in  the  Palace.  He's  got  con- 
fidence in  me — ^in  this  play,  anyway.  He  made 
them  give  me  a  trial.  And  that's  all  I  ask  for.  It'll 
go  like  wild-fire.    You'll  see." 

He  had  lighted  another  cigarette  and  was  puffing 
nervously.  "Where  is  it?"  he  demanded.  And 
when  the  manuscript  was  placed  in  his  hands  he 
drew  nearer  to  the  Hght.  With  smoke  curling  up 
into  his  eyes  he  began  to  read  aloud.  He  held  his 
head  askew,  to  escape  the  smoke. 

Baron  leaned  back,  his  face  in  shadow,  and 
curiously  studied  the  intense  manner  of  his  com- 
panion. 

Baggot  read:  fitfully,  speedily,  with  an  occasional 
aside,  which  he  dropped  entirely  when  he  got  well 

253 


Bonnie  May 

into  the  action  of  the  drama.  There  was  some- 
thing of  impersonation  in  his  manner  as  he  read 
now  one  character's  Unes  and  now  another's.  He 
put  so  much  interest  into  the  reading  that  it  seemed 
almost  like  acting.  And  presently  Baron  began  to 
see  vivid  pictures.  He  was  carried  into  a  strange, 
pleasant  atmosphere.  He  was  delighted  by  quaint, 
tmexpected  bits  of  dialogue.  He  perceived,  little 
by  little,  the  trend  of  the  whimsical  philosophy. 

He  cotdd  scarcely  believe  that  this  was  Baggot's 
work.  He  forgot  to  take  account  of  time.  And 
when  the  last  act  was  finished,  he  found  that  he 
had  risen  to  his  feet. 

"  Splendid ! "  he  exclaimed.    "  Splendid ! " 

Baggot  thrust  the  manuscript  from  him  and 
turned  to  the  other  with  brilHant,  triumphant  eyes. 

"No  fault  to-  find  with  that,"  he  challenged.  In 
another  moment  he  had  left  the  room,  and  was 
hurrying  down  the  stairs  and  away  from  the  house, 
too  excited  to  contain  himseK. 

The  manuscript  remained  where  it  had  fallen. 

Late  the  next  afternoon  Baron  returned  from  a 
day's  work  in  the  Times  office. 

He  was  thinking  of  Baggot's  play.  He  meant 
to  read  it  for  himself — to  see  how  much  he  had  been 
influenced  the  day  before  by  Baggot's  almost 
hypnotic  enthusiasm. 

He  went  up  into  the  attic  room — and  there, 
much  to  his  amazement  and  delight,  he  was  con- 
fronted by  Bonnie  May. 

254 


An  Exit  and  an  Entrance 

She  blushed  with  confusion  and  looked  at  him 
almost  guiltUy. 

"Back  so  soon!"  he  exclaimed. 

"Why,  it  seemed  to  me  I  was  away  quite  a  long 
time." 

"Well,  yes — ^I  suppose  I've  been  rather  busy." 
He  looked  about  for  the  manuscript,  which  seemed 
to  have  been  removed.  "Did  you  find  it  pleasant 
at  the  Thornburgs'?"  he  asked.  He  was  succeed- 
ing now  in  getting  back  his  habitual,  quiet  manner. 

"Oh,  yes.    Quite  pleasant." 

"That's  nice.  I  somehow  imagined  they  might 
persuade  you  to  stay  a  Httle  longer." 

"No,  when  I  said  I  ought  to  be  coming  home, 
she  sent  to  the  garage  and  had  the  automobile 
brought  aroimd  for  me." 

Baron  nodded.  "And  she  wasn't  disappointed, 
then?" 

"She  was  very  nice  about  it.  She  asked  me  to 
come  again.  She  told  the  man  that  any  time  I 
telephoned  to  him  he  might  come  with  the  machine 
and  get  me — here,  you  know.  Any  afternoon.  It 
seems  Mr.  Thornburg  never  uses  the  machine  in 
the  afternoons,  and  she  doesn't  care  for  it  herself. 
She  was  just  as  nice  as  she  could  be.  And  of  course 
I'm  going  back.   But  you  know  I  really  belong  here." 

"Yes,  certainly,"  assented  Baron.  "Yes,  I 
understand  that."  He  was  still  a  bit  puzzled. 
He  added  tentatively:  "Wasn't  everything  very 
beautiful  there?" 

255 


Bonnie  May 

"Beautiful?  In  what  way?" 
"The  house — the  grounds — everything." 
"Oh — the  settings!  Yes,  they  were  quite  pre- 
tentious. But  they  never  count  for  so  much,  really. 
It  is  the  action  and  the  dialogue  that  really  count. 
And  I  like  the  action  and  the  dialogue  here  much 
better." 


256 


CHAPTER  XXII 
BAGGOT'S  PLAY 

When  you  are  told  that  you  have  only  to  telephone 
to  a  certain  garage,  and  a  very  fine,  large  auto- 
mobile will  be  sent  around  to  your  house,  entirely 
at  your  service,  a  very  strong  temptation  has  been 
placed  in  your  way. 

Bonnie  May  could  scarcely  believe  that  she  could 
achieve  so  much  by  a  mere  word  or  two  over  the 
telephone,  and  it  was  not  at  all  surprising  that  she 
experimented  within  a  day  or  two  after  her  first 
visit  to  the  Thornburg  home. 

The  automobile  came  with  almost  incredible 
promptness,  and  a  chauffeur  who  had  the  gaUant 
bearing  of  a  soldier  did  everything  but  fling  a  cloak 
on  the  ground  for  Bonnie  May  to  walk  on. 

She  called  rather  briefly  and  formally  on  Mrs. 
Thornburg  on  this  occasion,  but  the  experience 
had  its  special,  dehghting  excitements.  The  ex- 
periment was  repeated  frequently,  and  the  truth 
must  be  recorded  that  before  long  Bonnie  May 
was  spending  her  time  more  or  less  equally  between 
the  mansion  and  the  Thornburg  home. 

She  became  something  of  a  personage  during 
those  days. 

Baggot  called  on  Baron  one  afternoon,  and  upon 

^257 


Bonnie  May 

being  informed  that  Baron  was  out,  he  asked  for 
Bonnie  May,  and  spent  fully  an  hour  with  her, 
leaving  her  in  a  high  state  of  complacency. 

The  next  day  he  called  again,  and  this  time  he 
did  not  ask  for  Baron.  He  came,  he  said,  to  call 
on  Bonnie  May. 

But  this  time  she  was  not  in.  She  spent  a  good 
part  of  her  time  as  the  guest  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Thorn- 
burg,  Baggot  was  told — ^which  indicates  clearly 
enough  how  the  status  of  affairs  had  changed. 

Baggot  made  a  note  of  this  information  and  went 
away  in  a  thoughtful  mood. 

The  members  of  the  Baron  family  considered 
these  developments  without  commenting  upon  them 
very  much  at  first.  But  one  day  Baron,  Sr.,  took 
occasion  to  express  an  opinion. 

"It  seems  strange  to  have  a  mere  infant  passing 
between  two  houses  like  a  bird  between  two  trees," 
he  said.  This  was  thought  to  be  his  mild  way  of 
expressing  disapproval. 

"It's  Victor's  arrangement,"  replied  Mrs.  Baron. 
This  response  was  made  less  inadequate  by  the 
way  her  eyebrows  went  up. 

"The  fact  is,"  declared  Flora,  "we've  all  fallen 
in  love  with  the  saucy  Uttle  thing." 

"Well?"  inquired  Mrs.  Baron  truculently. 

"I  mean,  I  don't  think  Victor's  idea  is  a  bad  one 
at  all.  She's — ^weU,  the  kind  that  do  extraordinary 
things  when  they  grow  up.  We  may  be  glad  enough 
to  be  in  a  position  where  we  can  'get  from  under* 
one  of  these  days." 

258 


Baggot's  Play 

"I'm  thinking  of  our  responsibility,"  was  her 
mother's  rejoinder. 

"Yes,  so  am  I.  Suppose  she  made  up  her  mind 
to  be  an  actress  again?  The  Thomburgs  would 
be  just  the  right  kind  of  friends  for  her  if  she  did — 
and  Victor  says  they  are  very  good  people.  But 
having  an  actress  in  the  house — in  our  house — ^would 
be  like  having  a  cub  bear  for  a  pet.  They're  cun- 
ning enough  when  they're  little,  but  there  comes  a 
time  when  you  have  to  telephone  the  zoo,  or  tmn 
in  a  riot  call." 

"You  ought  to  be  ashamed!"  cried  Mrs.  Baron. 
"I'm  sure  she's  a  good  child — a  very  good  child." 

The  word  "reconstruction"  came  to  Flora's 
mind,  but  she  didn't  say  anything  about  it.  She 
only  smiled,  rather  tantalizingly,  and  added:  "Just 
the  same,  I  believe  iu  cyclone  cellars." 

So  it  became  no  uncommon  thing  for  a  huge  car 
to  stop  before  the  mansion.  "For  me!"  Bonnie 
May  would  exclaim  on  these  occasions;  whereupon 
she  would  hurry  into  jacket  and  hat,  and  eagerly 
clasp  Mrs.  Baron  and  Flora  about  the  neck,  and 
hurry  with  real  childish  eagerness  as  far  as  the 
front  door,  after  which  she  would  demurely  cross 
the  sidewalk  and  take  her  place  in  the  car  with  the 
air  of  any  sedate  lady  of  fashion. 

The  first  little  unpleasantness  between  Bonnie 
May  and  Baron  arose  very  soon  after  this  series 
of  irregular  exits  and  entrances  began. 

"While  I  think  of  it,"  said  Baron  casually,  ad- 

259 


Bonnie  May 

dressing  the  child,  "I  want  to  provide  a — a  fund  for 
you."  He  smiled  amiably.  "See?"  He  took  a 
quantity  of  change  from  his  pocket  and  placed  it 
in  a  vase.  "Whenever  you  go  calling  it  will  be 
proper  for  you  to  put  something  into  your  purse. 
For  tips,  perhaps.  Or  for  something  of  that  kind. 
I  am  sure  a  young  lady  ought  to  have  a  Httle 
money." 

Bonnie  May  looked  curiously  into  his  smiling 
face,  which  seemed  to  have  been  transformed  for 
the  moment  into  a  mask.  "I  don't  beheve  I  would 
bother  about  that,"  she  repHed. 

"I'm  not  bothering."  Baron's  smile  stiffened 
slightly.  "I  merely  wish  you  to  have  what  you 
want." 

"But  Mrs.  Thomburg  always  gives  me  money." 

The  smile  vanished.  "That's  very  good  of  Mrs. 
Thomburg,  certainly.  But  when  you  are  in  our 
house  you  won't  need  her  money.  When  you're 
starting  out,  from  this  end  of  the  route,  you'll  find 
money  in  the  vase." 

She  looked  at  him  intently,  not  quite  under- 
standing the  unfriendly  note  in  his  voice.  "I  be- 
lieve you  are  jealous!"  she  said. 

"You  see  too  much,"  rejoined  Baron  resent- 
fuUy. 

"It  isn't  that.    You  show  too  much!" 

"Of  course,  I  ought  to  be  grateful  for  criticism 
from  such  a  source ! " 

She  regarded  him  with  wonder,  her  eyes  filling 
260 


Baggot's  Play 

with  tears.^  "YouVe  no  right  to  speak  to  me  like 
that.  You  know  I  don't  need  any  money.  You 
have  all  been  so  generous.  .  .  .  And  it's  only  be- 
cause Mrs.  Thomburg  isn't  well,  and  because  I 
don't  know  her  as  well  as  I  know  you  that  I  took 
money  from  her.  She  was  so  happy  giving  it  to 
me.  It  would  have  been  rude  for  me  to  refuse. 
But  here — ^here  I've  been  with  friends ! " 

She  brushed  the  tears  from  her  eyes  and  ran  from 
the  room.  As  in  other  times  of  stress,  Mrs.  Shepard 
and  the  kitchen  became  her  refuge. 

Baron  looked  after  her  with  an  assumption  of 
idle  curiosity,  but  when  he  heard  a  distant  door 
close  his  expression  changed  to  real  concern.  He 
was  dismayed  when  he  thought  how  deeply  he  had 
wounded  the  child.  He  was  aware  of  a  sudden 
resentment  against  the  Thornburgs.  He  sat  down 
and  gazed  abstractedly  at  the  carpet.  He  realized 
after  a  time  that  he  was  studying  the  meaningless 
outlines  of  a  figure  in  faded  colors.  "We  need  a 
new  carpet,"  he  mused.  "We  need  everything 
new.  And  the  only  new  thing  we've  got  hold  of 
in  years  is  discovering  that  everything  in  the  house, 
incliiding  ourselves,  is  threadbare,  and  respectable 
— and  ugly." 

Then  he  realized  that  Bonnie  May  had  come 
back  into  the  room  and  that  she  was  almost  im- 
patiently trying  to  thrust  her  hand  into  his. 

"Oh,  do  let's  play  nice  parts,"  she  remonstrated. 
"You  know,  if  you  once  start  in  melodrama  it's 

261 


Bonnie  May 

the  hardest  thing  in  the  world  to  get  into  anything 
better." 

He  leaned  back  and  clasped  his  hands  behind 
his  head.  "I  think  I  make  rather  a  silly  villain," 
he  admitted. 

"You  see,  I  know  what  troubled  you.  I  thought 
it  out.  You  thought  I  could  care  more  for  the 
things  the  Thornburgs  do  for  me  than  I  do  for 
the  lovely  way  you  took  me  in  here  and  were  good 
to  me.    Wasn't  that  it?" 

"Why,  something  like  that." 

"Well,  that's  silly.  PoHteness— that's  all  it's 
been  with  them.  But  the  way  you  took  me  in,  and 
treated  me,  and  everything.  .  .  .  You  don't  think 
I  could  be  such  a  Httle  beast  as  not  to  understand 
all  that,  do  you?" 

There  was  no  other  friction  for  many  days.  In- 
deed, Bonnie  May  was  less  frequently  absent  when 
Baron  came  into  the  house  from  his  journeys  about 
the  city.  She  seemed  after  all  to  be  developing  only 
a  limited  interest  in  the  Thornburgs. 

Besides,  Baron  had  a  new  interest  thrust  upon 
him.  Baggot  had  arrived  at  a  point  in  the  de- 
velopment of  his  play  which  made  him  an  incessant 
nuisance  to  all  his  acquaintances,  and  to  Baron 
most  of  all.  He  could  talk  of  nothing  but  his  drama 
— "The  Break  of  Day,"  it  was  called — ^and  he  in- 
sisted upon  consulting  Baron,  or  inviting  his  ad- 
miration and  approval,  half  a  dozen  times  a  day. 

262 


Baggot's  Play 

Rehearsals  had  begun  over  at  the  Palace,  and 
the  process  of  cutting,  and  elaborating,  and  alter- 
ing, was  almost  driving  Baggot  mad.  Mad  with 
resentment,  sometimes;  or  mad  with  excitement 
and  anticipations. 

"You'll  review  it  for  one  of  the  papers,  won't 
you?"  he  demanded  of  Baron  on  one  occasion, 
indicating  by  manner  and  tone  that  a  refusal  was 
out  of  the  question. 

"How  can  I  tell?"  retorted  Baron,  v" I'll  have 
to  wait  until  I'm  asked." 

"I'll  attend  to  that."  He  was  blind  to  Baron's 
contemptuous  and  sceptical  grin.  "And  I'll  want 
to  extend  courtesies  to  your  family,  if  you  don't 
mind.  A  box.  You  know  it  helps  a  lot  to  have  the 
right  kind  of  people  at  a  premiere."  He  perceived 
something  in  Baron's  eyes  which  disquieted  him. 
"I  mean,"  he  added,  "I  want  to  get  the  opinion  of 
the  right  kind  of  people." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Baron.  "Of  course  I  can't 
answer  for  the  family.  They  might  like  to  come. 
They  will  appreciate  the  invitation,  in  any  event." 
He  was  wondering  why  he  had  ever  permitted  Bag- 
got  to  get  acquainted  with  him.  Then,  afraid  that 
Baggot  would  read  this  thought  in  his  eyes,  he 
added  evasively:  "Bonnie  May  appears  to  be  the 
real  theatregoer  of  the  family.  She  will  want  to 
come,  I'm  sure." 

"Oh,  Bonnie  May!"  Baggot  seemed  to  be 
brushing  the  name  aside.    "It's  the  family  I  want. 

263 ' 


Bonnie  May 

I  have  a  reason.  Be  sure  not  to  fail  me."  He 
seemed  to  remember  something  in  connection  with 
the  work  over  at  the  Palace.  In  a  moment  he  was 
gone,  without  a  word  of  farewell. 

He  was  utterly  childish,  Baron  thought,  and 
certainly  it  was  wrong  to  disappoint  children  need- 
lessly. 

Yes,  he  would  really  try  to  persuade  the  family 
to  go. 

When  occasion  arose  to  speak  to  Bonnie  May 
alone  he  tried  to  make  light  of  the  whole  affair. 
"A  great  honor,"  he  began,  "for  you  and  all  of 
us.  A  box  has  been  reserved  for  us  for  the  first 
performance  of  'The  Break  of  Day.'  " 

Bonnie  May  clapped  her  hands.  "How  fine!" 
she  said.    "Do  you  think  they  will  all  go?" 

"I  hardly  know.  Really,  it  doesn't  seem  very 
important — does  it? — a  first  performance,  in  a 
summer  theatre,  by  an  imknown  company!" 

She  seemed  anxious.  "Anyway,  I  do  hope 
mother  will  go." 

Baron  thought  he  understood  that.  If  "mother" 
refused  to  go,  she  might  not  be  permitted  to  go 
herself. 

However,  he  approached  his  mother  on  the  sub- 
ject with  a  certain  amount  of  earnestness.  "I've 
had  a  sort  of  hand  in  the  play,  in  a  small  way," 
he  explained.  "And  Baggot  is  anxious  to  have 
us  all  come."  He  couldn't  resist  the  temptation 
to  add:  "He  places  a  high  value  on  the  opinion  of 

264 


Baggot's  Play 

what  he  calls  nice  people.  That  means  us.  You 
can't  seem  indififerent  to  such  recognition,  can 
you?" 

Mrs.  Baron  was  deaf  to  the  sarcasm.  "Isn't 
it  one  of  those  cheap  summer  theatres?"  she  asked. 

"Yes,  but  really  I  don't  know  that  it  will  be 
very  different  from  the  winter  performances.  Not 
as  an  ethical  proposition,  anyway." 

"I  hardly  think  I'd  be  interested,"  she  decided. 
However,  she  did  not  speak  with  her  usual  cer- 
tainty, and  she  glanced  at  her  son  a  bit  anxiously. 
If  he  really  wanted  her  to  go.  .  .  . 

On  a  later  occasion  Baron  again  touched  the 
subject.  He  had  just  got  rid  of  Baggot,  who  was 
in  an  unusually  enthusiastic  mood. 

"Really,  mother,  I  have  an  idea  that  play  is 
going  to  be  quite  worth  while.  If  you  didn't  mind 
it  very  much.  ..." 

But  Mrs.  Baron  fancied  she  was  being  coerced. 
"No,  I  think  not,"  she  said,  shaking  her  head. 

"And  Bonnie  May,"  added  Baron.  "Great 
goodness,  how  anxious  she  is  to  go !  I  suppose  she 
thinks  she  can^t  go  unless  you  do." 

Mrs.  Baron's  eyes  flashed.  That  was  it !  Bonnie 
May's  comfort  and  pleasure — that,  and  nothing 
more. 

"I  remember  that  argmnent,"  she  said,  rather 
disagreeably.  "You  forget  that  she  has  other 
friends  now — rather  better  suited  to  her  needs  in 
this  case.    The  Thornburgs  can  take  her." 

265 


Bonnie  May 

But  Baron,  noting  the  uncomfortable  look  in 
her  eyes,  left  her  with  the  conclusion,  unexpressed: 
"My  bet  is  that  the  Thornburgs  will  not  take 
her." 


266 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

BARON  COMES  HOME  ON  A  BEER-DRAY 

Baron  was  not  at  all  confident  that  any  of  the 
dramatic  editors  would  want  him  to  write  a  review 
of  "The  Break  of  Day."  He  merely  hoped  his 
services  might  be  required.  And  he  was  disap- 
pointed. 

He  might  have  had  the  assignment  for  the  ask- 
ing, perhaps;  but  he  felt  a  hesitancy  about  asking. 
He  had  "fathered"  the  play,  somewhat.  He  had 
a  personal  interest  in  it. 

Moreover,  there  was  one  reason  why  he  was  glad 
to  be  disengaged.  Now  he  could  attend  the  per- 
formance as  an  ordinary  spectator,  and  he  could 
take  Bonnie  May  with  him. 

The  day  of  the  first  performance  arrived.  Baron 
left  the  mansion  early  in  the  forenoon,  more  for 
the  purpose  of  escaping  the  half -insane  Baggot 
than  for  any  other  reason.  Baggot  didn't  reaUy 
beheve  that  Baron  could  help  him,  perhaps,  but  his 
nature  demanded  that  he  talk  about  his  play  all 
the  time,  and  Baron  listened  well. 

Bonnie  May  was  not  about  when  Baron  left  the 
mansion.  He  had  had  no  final  understanding  with 
her  as  to  whether  she  was  to  go  to  the  theatre  that 
night  or  not.    And  it  was  for  this  reason  that  he  was 

267 


Bonnie  May 

coming  home  in  a  particularly  eager  mood,  late  in 
the  afternoon,  to  tell  her  that  he  was  foot-loose, 
and  that  she  might  depend  upon  him  as  an  escort 
to  the  theatre. 

He  was  coming  home  with  much  eagerness — 
and  then  an  accident  happened. 

He  started  to  aHght  from  the  cross-town  car  be- 
fore it  stopped,  and  his  foot  struck  a  loose  frag- 
ment of  stone,  and  he  lost  his  balance.  Thinking 
of  the  matter  afterward,  he  decided  that  he  could 
not  recall  an  experience  more  banal,  more  needless. 
But  he  did  not  reach  this  conclusion  at  the  time, 
for  the  good  reason  that  his  head  struck  the  pave- 
ment and  he  lost  consciousness.  There  had  been 
just  one  instant  of  sharp  agony. 

He  opened  his  eyes  presently  to  find  himself 
supported  by  two  men.  Every  passenger  in  the 
crowded  car,  which  had  stopped,  was  staring  at 
him.  A  crowd  of  pedestrians  had  also  stopped  to 
see  what  had  happened. 

He  looked  dazedly  at  the  two  men  who  were  sup- 
porting him.  One  was  the  car-conductor,  whose 
eyes  expressed  fear  and  disgust.  The  other  man's 
appearance  was  in  some  degree  familiar  to  Baron. 
He  was  gigantic,  ruddy,  wholly  self-possessed. 

Baron  wondered  who  this  man  was,  and  then, 
as  his  gaze  roved  weakly  from  point  to  point,  he 
saw  a  red  beer-dray — and  he  knew.  This  was  the 
beer-driver  whom  he  and  Bonnie  May  had  watched 
and  discussed  one  day  from  the  attic  window. 

268 


Baron  Comes  Home  on  a  Beer-Dray 

"He's  all  right,"  declared  the  beer-driver,  get- 
ting a  j&rmer  grip  on  Baron's  arm. 

Baron  was  greatly  relieved  to  hear  that  he  was 
"all  right."  He  had  his  doubts.  The  back  of  his 
head  seemed  to  be  asleep,  and  there  was  a  horrible 
pain  in  his  left  leg  when  he  tried  to  touch  the 
pavement  with  his  foot. 

"I'll  want  your  name  and  address,  and  the  names 
of  witnesses,"  said  the  conductor.  He  had  pro- 
duced a  Uttle  note-book. 

"You  don't  need  them,"  declared  Baron.  "It 
was  my  own  fault.  I  don't  want  to  be  detained 
here." 

"But  the  rules  require — "  said  the  conductor. 

"Just  forget  the  rules,"  advised  the  beer-driver, 
who  perceived  that  Baron  meant  what  he  said. 
And  in  an  instant  Baron  was  feeling  a  new  sort 
of  embarrassment,  because  the  ruddy  giant  of  the 
beer-dray  had  picT^ed  him  up  in  his  arms,  and  was 
taking  long  strides  in  the  direction  of  his  dray. 
"  Out  of  the  way ! "  he  ordered,  and  people  obeyed. 

Baron  had  the  helpless  sensation  of  one  who 
rides  on  an  elephant.  He  thought  he  realized  now 
just  what  it  must  be  to  perform  the  tasks  of  a  ma- 
hout. "Though  I  don't  seem  to  need  an  ankus — 
yet,"  he  meditated.    Baron  had  read  his  Kipling. 

"I'm  sorry  to  trouble  you,"  he  said,  speaking  in 
a  general  downward  direction. 

"You're  not  troubling  me,"  came  back  the  an- 
swer. 

269 


Bonnie  May 

The  driver  had  reached  his  dray,  and  greatly  to 
Baron's  amazement,  he  put  a  foot  on  the  hub  of 
the  wheel,  a  disengaged  hand  on  the  iron  bar  sur- 
rounding the  back  of  the  seat,  and  had  vaulted 
into  a  sitting  posture,  carrying  his  burden  with  him. 

It  seemed  to  Baron  that  he  had  been  swung 
through  limitless  space,  as  if  he  had  been  a  star, 
held  to  its  place  by  gravity.  He  held  his  hat  in 
place,  as  he  might  have  done  if  a  cyclone  had  seized 
him  in  its  clutch.  And  with  such  attention  as  he 
could  command  he  was  observing  the  performance 
of  the  driver. 

"Sit  down,"  commanded  that  individual:  need- 
lessly, for  already  Baron  was  by  his  side,  holding 
on  to  the  iron  bar  at  the  back  of  the  seat,  and 
feeling  uncomfortably  light  and  dizzy.  His  com- 
panion looked  into  his  eyes.  "A  pretty  hard  jolt," 
he  said,  thrusting  a  protecting  arm  about  his  charge. 
"Gee-app!"  He  pulled  the  reins  dexterously  with 
the  aid  of  thumb  and  little  finger,  and  the  horses 
began  to  move. 

Much  to  Baron's  surprise,  the  driver  did  not 
ask  him  where  he  lived,  but  quietly  turned  his 
horses'  heads  in  the  right  direction,  adjusting  the 
brake  with  his  foot,  and  glancing  ahead  to  see  that 
the  right  of  way  was  clear. 

Baron's  mind  reverted  to  Bonnie  May  for  an 
instant,  and  he  remembered  that  she  had  noted 
how  the  driver  had  held  his  reins  with  authority, 
and  sat  with  his  great  legs  planted  purposefully 
before  him.    Yes,  that  was  precisely  right. 

270 


Baron  Comes  Home  on  a  Beer-Dray 

"You  haven't  asked  me  where  I  live,"  he  re- 
marked, trying  to  be  partly  independent  of  his 
companion's  support. 

"I  don't  have  to.    I  know." 

"How?" 

"I've  noticed  you  before  now.  You're  one  of 
the  Barons." 

The  injured  man  felt  flattered.  Still,  he  re- 
flected, the  driver  might  have  noticed  him  for  any 
number  of  unflattering  reasons.  For  a  moment  he 
tried  to  fathom  this  thought:  Was  it  an  evidence 
that  the  driver  was  simple  and  stupid,  that  he  had 
interested  himself  in  the  people  who  Uved  in  his 
neighborhood?  He  couldn't  reach  a  satisfactory 
conclusion. 

"It's  awfully  good  of  you  to  give  me  a  lift  like 
this,"  he  remarked.  He  was  beginning  to  feel  a 
little  less  shaken  and  strange. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.  You'd  do  as  much  for  me, 
wouldn't  you?" 

"Carry  you  around  and  lift  you  up  on  a  high 
seat?"  asked  Baron  incredulously. 

The  driver  threw  back  his  immense  head,  reveal- 
ing a  bronzed,  bull-like  throat  from  which  a  sound 
like  thunder  came.  "Well,  no,  I  guess  you  wouldn't 
do  //wj/,"  he  admitted. 

The  horses,  with  their  ears  turned  alternately 
toward  the  driver  and  pointed  ahead,  were  brought 
to  a  halt  in  front  of  the  mansion. 

"Now  you  sit  up  here  and  hold  tight,  and  try 
to  look  as  if  nothing  had  happened,"  directed  the 

271 


Bonnie  May 

driver.     He  removed  his  arm  and  sprang  to  the 
pavement. 

"Why?"  Baron  wanted  to  know. 

"I  want  to  call  your  old  lady  out,  so  she  can  see 
you  sitting  up  on  the  seat." 

Baron  frowned.    "Why?"  he  asked  again. 

"If  I'd  carry  you  to  the  door  and  ring  the  bell, 
she'd  have  a  fit  when  she  came  out.  She's  pretty 
high-strung,  anyway."  It  was  as  if  he  were  de- 
scribing a  woman  of  his  own  household,  instead  of 
Baron's. 

"Oh!"  responded  Baron.  He  was  thinking  that 
it  was  difficult  to  know  where  to  expect  chivalry  in 
one  form  or  another,  and  that  there  were  various 
ways  of  manifesting  it.  "I  beheve  you're  right," 
he  added. 

It  was  Mrs.  Baron  who  came  to  the  door  in  re- 
sponse to  a  ring.  It  is  not  improbable  that  she 
had  been  looking  out  of  the  upper  window. 

"Your  son  wants  to  speak  to  you,"  said  the 
driver,  dragging  off  his  German  cap  and  revealing 
a  shock  of  dishevelled  hair. 

Mrs.  Baron  seemed  to  ignore  the  man  utterly. 
She  stood,  pale  and  rigid,  staring  at  Baron.  She 
comprehended  at  least  one  thing:  he  had  driven 
up  to  the  door  of  the  mansion  in  a  beer-dray. 

Then  she  smiled  ominously.  "What  a  quaint 
idea!"  said  she,  passing  the  driver  and  descend- 
ing the  steps.  "Of  course,  this  is  one  of  your 
jokes!" 

272 


Baron  Comes  Home  on  a  Beer- Dray 

She  paused  then.  She  had  swiftly  become  less 
assured  in  her  anger. 

"I've  had  a  mean  fall,  mother,"  said  Baron, 
trying  to  keep  a  martyr-like  tone  out  of  his  voice. 
"I'm  afraid  I'll  have  to  be  carried  into  the  house. 
This  man  was  good  enough  to  bring  me  home.  He 
was  afraid  of  alarming  you.  It  was  his  idea  that 
you  ought  to  be  notified  before  he  carried  me  in." 

"Oh,  I  didn't  understand!"  There  was  swift, 
childlike  remorse  in  her  bearing.  "It  was  kind  of 
you,"  she  added  to  the  driver,  by  way  of  atone- 
ment for  her  rudeness.  She  regarded  him  with 
flickering  eyes.  She  could  not  help  shrinking  from 
the  warm,  gross  bulk  of  the  man,  yet  she  admired 
him  somewhat  as  a  lamb  might  admire  a  benevo- 
lent bull  that  has  just  driven  a  wolf  away. 

She  went  as  far  as  the  curb  and  looked  up  at 
Baron  critically.  Yes,  he  was  seriously  injured. 
Something  told  her  that.  A  strained  expression 
about  his  lips  and  eyes,  perhaps,  and  his  attitude. 

She  turned  anxiously  to  the  driver.  "Do  you 
suppose  you  can  get  him  in  without  any  help?'* 
she  asked. 

"Sure!"  The  driver  derived  no  joy  from  her 
sudden  discomfiture — ^in  the  sudden  levelling  of  her 
high  spirit  to  the  lowly  plane  of  a  fearful  mother. 
Perhaps  he  did  not  realize  that  she  had  been  wrath- 
ful toward  her  son,  and  rude  to  him.  "You  go  and 
push  the  door  open  and  get  things  ready."  He 
approached  Baron  and  held  his  arms  up. 


Bonnie  May 

Baron  put  his  hands  on  the  immense  fellow's 
shoulders,  and  again  he  experienced  that  sensation 
of  being  swung  through  space.  In  an  instant  he 
was  being  borne  up  his  own  front  steps. 

"Can  you  carry  him  up-stairs?"  inquired  Mrs. 
Baron  dubiously. 

"Why  not?"  And  up  the  stairs  the  driver  pro- 
ceeded, without  the  sUghtest  evident  effort. 

At  the  top  Mrs.  Baron  led  the  way  into  Baron's 
old  room — now  Bonnie  May's.  But  the  driver 
paused  on  the  threshold,  leisurely  casting  his  eyes 
over  the  evidences  of  feminine  proprietorship. 

"You'd  better  let  me  take  him  to  his  own  room, 
mother,"  he  declared  decisively.  He  seemed  quite 
unconscious  of  bearing  a  burden.  He  was  woodenly 
indifferent  to  Baron's  efforts  to  get  down. 

"But  that's  up  another  flight,"  was  Mrs.  Baron's 
faltering  response. 

"That's  all  right.  You  see,  I'm  used  to  deliver- 
ing beer-barrels,  and  they  always  find  they  save 
trouble  if  they  let  me  put  'em  just  where  they  be- 
long." 

Baron,  thinking  of  the  difficulties  which  might 
arise  when  this  willing  and  capable  Atlas  was  gone, 
quite  agreed  with  the  suggestion.  "I'm  sure  he's 
right,  mother,"  he  said,  "if  he  doesn't  mind." 

Up  another  flight  Baron  was  borne,  and  at  the 
top  the  driver  turned  about  haltingly,  but  still 
seemingly  unaware  of  having  his  strength  taxed, 
and  called  down:   "You  better  see  about  getting  a 

274 


Baron  Comes  Home  on  a  Beer-Dray 

doctor,  mother.  He'll  need  to  have  himself  looked 
after.    I  can  put  him  to  bed." 

Baron  was  able  to  grin  weakly  at  the  driver's 
simple  generalship — and  at  the  fact  that  his  mother 
obeyed  with  nervous  promptitude.  "That  way," 
said  he,  pointing,  and  then  he  essayed  a  Httle  joke. 
"I  think  you  forgot  to  carry  me  around  the  block 
a  time  or  two  before  you  started  up  here,  didn't 
you?"  he  asked  the  driver. 

"Oh,  it's  nothing,"  came  back  the  response. 
"If  I  had  a  twelve-year-old  boy  who  didn't  weigh 
more  than  you  do,  I'd  drown  him." 

With  this  the  attic  room  was  entered,  and  Baron 
was  placed  carefully  on  a  chair.  Then  his  shoes 
and  other  garments  were  removed  with  caution, 
and  before  he  quite  realized  what  had  happened,  he 
was  in  bed. 

"I  wish  I  had  your  strength,"  he  said,  feeling 
that  such  service  as  he  had  received  ought  to  be 
acknowledged  somehow. 

"What?  Oh,  you'd  better  leave  that  to  me. 
I  need  it  and  you  don't.  I  guess  that's  about  the 
only  thing  I've  got." 

"No,  it  isn't.  You've  got  the  right  kind  of  a 
heart,  too." 

This  created  instant  embarrassment.  By  way  of 
escape  from  praise,  the  big  fellow  whispered  loudly: 
"Say  the  word  and  I'll  jump  out  and  get  a  bucket 
of  beer  before  the  mother  gets  back." 

"Beer!"  exclaimed  Baron.     He  had  always  as- 

275- 


Bonnie  May 

sociated  beer  with  festive  occasions,  and  he  was 
quite  sure  the  present  moment  was  not  a  festive 
occasion.  "I  don't  believe  I  care  for  any  beer — 
just  now."  He  believed  he  had  achieved  a  com- 
mendably  diplomatic  stroke  by  adding  the  two  last 
words.  He  was  prompted  to  add:  "But  if  you're 
sure  your  horses  won't  get  restless,  I'd  be  glad  to 
have  you  stay  until  mother  comes." 

The  driver  sat  down,  selecting  a  straight-backed 
chair,  and  holding  himself  so  upright  that  he  made 
Baron  think  of  a  huge,  benevolent  heathen  god. 
He  had  dropped  his  cap  to  the  floor  beside  him, 
and  his  hands  were  clasped  about  his  capacious 
stomach.  There  was  now  a  restful  placidity  as 
well  as  extraordinary  power  in  his  presence. 

"And  it  isn't  just  your  strength  that  I  envy," 
said  Baron,  catching  the  luminous  blue  eyes  of  the 
driver  for  an  instant,  "it's  the  generous  way  you've 
got  of  treating  a  fellow  as  if  he  were  a  brother!" 

This,  too,  created  great  embarrassment.  The 
driver's  face  flamed  and  he  struggled  to  get  away 
from  anything  resembling  praise.  "Yes,  sir!"  he 
exclaimed,  as  if  he  were  merely  continuing,  "that 
bay  horse  would  stand  in  his  tracks  until  I  came 
back,  even  if  the  owner  of  the  brewery  tried  to 
drive  him  away." 

Baron  laughed.  "Well,  I  won't  say  anything 
more  to  your  credit,  if  you  don't  want  to  hear  it," 
he  said.  But  after  a  moment's  silence  he  went  on, 
more  seriously  than  he  had  yet  spoken,  "but  do 

276 


Baron  Comes  Home  on  a  Beer-Dray 

tell  me,  for  my  own  good,  how  you  manage  to  feel 
so  well  disposed  toward  people — toward  every- 
body!" 

"Who,  me?  Oh,  I  just  drink  a  bucket  of  beer 
every  time  I  get  thirsty,  and  every  time  I  begin  to 
feel  mean  I  go  out  and  dance  with  the  girls  pretty 
near  all  night.  The  bigger  they  are  the  easier  I 
swing  'em."  He  leaned  back  and  laughed  until 
things  in  the  room  shook.    A  book  fell  off  the  table. 

Mrs.  Baron  came  in  with  the  doctor  then,  and 
it  remained  for  her  to  make  the  mistake  which 
Baron  had  avoided. 

"You  must  let  me  pay  you  for  your  trouble," 
she  said.  "I  don't  know  what  would  have  hap- 
pened but  for  you." 

But  the  extraordinary  creature  grasped  his  cap 
in  both  hands  and  reddened  again.  "Who,  me?" 
lie  said.  "Oh,  no,  mother.  I  make  mine  flirting 
with  beer-barrels."  He  made  his  exit  uneasily. 
They  heard  him  whistling  on  the  stairs.  In  the 
distance  the  front  door  closed  with  a  bang. 

"What  an  extraordinary  creature!"  exclaimed 
Mrs.  Baron. 

"Yes,"  repHed  Baron,  "I'm  afraid  he  is — ex- 
traordinary." 

He  was  remembering  something  about  the  mis- 
leading effects  of  a  make-up.  Surely  this  big  fel- 
low's immense  body  and  his  rough  speech  were 
only  a  make-up,  after  all,  hiding  those  qualities 
which  even  from  the  standpoint  of  a  Baron  were 

277 


Bonnie  May 

most  to  be  sought  and  cherished!  That  was  what 
Bonnie  May  had  tried  to  impress  upon  him. 

Then,  with  sudden  anxiety,  Baron  turned  to  his 
mother.    "Where  is  Bonnie  May?"  he  asked. 

"She  went  away  this  afternoon,"  was  the  re- 
sponse. Mrs.  Baron  avoided  her  son's  eyes.  She 
spoke  rather  guiltily. 

"She  went  away,"  Baron  mused  disconsolately. 
"And  it  was  to-night  she  was  so  eager  to  have 
somebody  take  her  to  see  'The  Break  of  Day.'  " 


278 


CHAPTER  XXIV 
BONNIE  MAY  HIDES  SOMETHING 

Baron  made  a  wry  face  when  he  was  told  by  Doctor 
Percivald  that  he  had  a  very  badly  sprained  ankle, 
and  that  he  would  have  to  remain  on  his  back  in- 
definitely. 

"Couldn't  it  have  been  something  less — lady- 
like?" he  wanted  to  know.  But  Doctor  Percivald, 
being  a  scientific-minded  person,  merely  glanced 
at  him  impatiently  and  said  nothing. 

However,  he  speedily  discovered  that  being  an 
invahd  on  what  might  be  considered  a  preferred 
plan  was  not  without  its  compensations. 

He  became  the  pivot  around  which  the  affairs 
of  the  household  revolved.  He  was  constantly 
being  considered  and  deferred  to.  It  had  been  so 
long  since  any  member  of  the  family  had  been  dis- 
abled that  his  affliction,  being  very  Hmited  in  ex- 
tent, was  looked  upon  as  a  sort  of  luxury. 

However,  though  the  family  gathered  about  his 
bed  occasionally  to  hold  pleasant  discussions,  there 
were  times  when  he  lay  alone — and  these  were  the 
most  profitable  if  not  the  most  pleasant  hours  of  all. 

The  noises  of  the  street,  pleasantly  muffled, 
reached  him;  movements  in  the  house  were  faintly 

279 


Bonnie  May- 
audible  and  pleasantly  homely;  the  sun  shone  with 
a  lonely  brilliance  against  his  walls. 

During  such  periods  he  took  an  inventory  of  life 
from  a  new  angle.  He  sat  in  judgment  upon  him- 
self like  a  disinterested  person.  Baron,  disabled, 
critically  surveyed  Baron,  able  to  be  about. 

"Spendthrift  of  time  and  chance — that's  what 
you  are,"  decided  Baron,  disabled,  directing  his 
condemnation  against  Baron,  well  and  sound. 
"You've  been  thinking  all  the  time  that  to  be 
Baron  was  something  fine.  You  haven't  had  sense 
enough  to  realize  that  merely  being  Baron  wasn't 
being  anything  at  all.  You've  got  to  realize  that 
all  men  must  be  measured  by  just  one  standard. 
You've  got  to  quit  thinking  it's  right  for  you  to 
do  just  the  pleasant  things — the  things  you  like  to 
do.  You  have  got  to  go  to  work,  and  take  orders 
like  any  other  man." 

Lying  in  his  room,  he  obtained  a  new  impression 
of  Bonnie  May,  too. 

She  did  not  return  to  the  mansion  on  the  day 
of  his  accident.  He  thought  she  might  possibly  do 
so  after  the  theatre  hour,  but  the  evening  passed 
and  in  due  time  there  were  the  sounds  of  the  house 
being  closed  for  the  night,  and  languid  voices  call- 
ing to  one  another  on  the  floor  below. 

The  first  long  night  passed,  with  occasional  tap- 
ping on  the  invalid's  door  by  Mrs.  Baron.  A  dozen 
times  during  the  night  she  came  to  see  if  he  needed 
anything,  to  be  sure  that  he  rested  comfortably. 

280 


Bonnie  May  Hides  Something 

Finally  he  chided  her  gayly  for  disturbing  him 
and  herself;  then,  after  another  interval  which 
seemed  only  of  a  few  minutes,  he  opened  his  eyes 
again  to  respond  to  the  tapping  on  the  door,  and 
discovered  that  the  sun  was  shining  into  the  room. 
It  was  quite  late  in  the  forenoon. 

"I've  come  with  the  papers,"  said  Flora,  ap- 
proaching his  bed  like  a  particularly  lovely  minis- 
tering angel.  "Mother's  lying  down.  She  didn't 
sleep  very  well  last  night." 

Baron  had  the  odd  thought  that  people  must 
look  entirely  different  if  you  looked  at  them  while 
you  were  lying  down.  Never  before  had  Flora 
seemed  so  serene  and  beautiful  and  richly  endowed 
with  graces  of  person  and  voice.  He  was  so  pleased 
with  this  view  of  her  that  he  decided  not  to  lift 
his  head. 

Then,  while  she  arranged  the  papers,  uncon- 
scious of  his  scrutiny,  he  read  an  expression  in  her 
eyes  which  brought  him  abruptly  to  his  elbow. 

"Flora,"  he  declared,  "you're  not  happy!" 

She  laughed  softly  as  if  to  ridicule  such  a  sug- 
gestion, but  immediately  there  was  a  delicate  flush 
in  her  face.  "Nonsense!"  she  said.  "And  some- 
body helpless  in  the  house  to  worry  about?  One 
wouldn't  dance  and  sing  imder  the  circimistances. 
I'm  trying  to  behave  becomingly — that's  all." 

Baron  disregarded  this.  "And  as  soon  as  I  get 
up,"  he  said,  "I'm  going  to  see  that  certain  non- 
sense is  ended.    He's  a  dandy  good  fellow — that's 

281 


Bonnie  May 

what  he  is.  I  can't  imagine  what  we've  all  been 
thinking  about." 

"He — "  Flora  began  properly  enough,  but 
the  conventional  falsehood  she  meant  to  utter 
failed  to  shape  itself.  She  couldn't  return  her 
brother's  glance.  It  occurred  to  her  that  the  win- 
dow-shade needed  adjusting. 

"I'm  going  to  put  a  stop  to  certain  nonsense," 
Baron  repeated.  He  rattled  the  newspapers  with 
decision,  covertly  regarding  his  sister,  who  did 
not  trust  herself  to  speak  again.  She  kept  her 
eyes  averted  as  she  left  the  room. 

Flora  had  opened  all  the  papers  so  that  the 
dramatic  reviews  came  uppermost,  and  as  Baron 
glanced  from  one  to  another  he  forgot  Flora  com- 
pletely. By  the  time  he  had  glanced  at  the  fifth 
review  of  the  production  of  "The  Break  of  Day" 
he  dropped  the  papers  and  drew  a  long  breath. 
"Holy  Smoke!"  he  exclaimed,  and  then  he  re- 
turned to  his  reading. 

Baggot's  play  had  scored  an  almost  unprece- 
dented success.  Several  of  the  dramatic  critics 
had  written  signed  articles  in  which  they  expressed 
unbounded  praise.  And  from  his  knowledge  of 
newspaper  writing.  Baron  knew  that  even  the  most 
hardened  of  theatregoers  had  been  swept  off  their 
feet  by  the  charm  and  novelty  of  the  new  play. 

Baron  gathered  that  a  new  actress  had  been 
added  to  the  group  of  notable  American  artists 
as  a  result  of  the  creation  of  the  part  of  "The 

282 


Bonnie  May  Hides  Something 

Sprite."  But  when  he  sought  from  one  account  to 
another  for  the  name  of  this  player,  he  found  only 
that  the  role  of  "The  Sprite"  had  been  played 
"By  Herself."  He  couldn't  find  her  name  any- 
where, or  anything  about  her. 

But  after  all,  the  identity  of  even  a  very  suc- 
cessful player  was  not  the  thing  Baron  was  thinking 
of  most.  He  was  delighted  that  Baggot  had  been 
successful.    It  seemed  that  Baggot  had  "arrived." 

His  reflections  were  interrupted  by  his  mother. 
She  entered  the  room  rather  hurriedly.  Baron 
realized  that  something  must  have  happened,  or 
she  wouldn't  have  come  in  like  that,  rubbing  her 
eyes  sleepily  and  wearing  a  loose  wrapper. 

"They're  telephoning  for  you  down  at  the  news- 
paper office,"  she  yawned.  "I  didn't  tell  them 
you  were — that  you  couldn't.  ...  I  thought  may- 
be you  might  like  to  do  some  writing  in  bed,  if  they 
want  you  to." 

"No,  I'm  not  going  to  do  any  writing  in  bed. 
I  feel  as  if  that  is  what  I've  been  doing  always. 
I'm  going  to  wait  until  I  can  get  up,  and  then  I'm 
going  to  work  in  earnest." 

She  regarded  him  dubiously,  not  understanding 
at  all.    "And  what  shall  I  say?"  she  asked. 

"Tell  them  I'm  laid  up,  and  that  I'll  be  down  to 
see  them  as  soon  as  I'm  able  to  be  about." 

"VeryweU." 

"And  mother — don't  say  I've  got  a  sprained 
ankle.    Think  of  something  else." 

283 


Bonnie  May 

"Something   else "    Mrs.    Baron   succeeded 

now  in  opening  her  eyes  to  their  normal  width. 

"It  doesn't  sound  very  impressive.  Every- 
body sprains  his  ankle.  You  might  say  I've  broken 
my  leg,  if  you  can't  think  of  anything  else." 

"A  sprained  ankle  is  a  sprained  ankle,"  was  the 
answer  he  received;  and  he  dropped  back  on  his 
pillow  as  limply  as  if  he  had  been  overcome  by  a 
great  flash  of  truth. 

Almost  immediately,  however,  he  heard  a  dis- 
tant commotion  on  the  stairway  and,  after  an  in- 
stant of  whispering  and  murmuring  in  the  hall, 
his  door  flew  open.  To  his  astonishment,  Bonnie 
May  literally  ran  into  the  room. 

Her  face  was  colorless;   she  was  staring  at  him. 

"What  happened?"  she  asked  in  a  voice  which 
was  unsteady. 

"Nothing,  child!"  he  exclaimed  sharply. 
"They've  alarmed  you.  It  was  nothing  at  all. 
Didn't  mother  tell  you?" 

"She  told  me  there  had  been  an  accident  and 
that  you  were  in  bed.    I  didn't  wait  for  any  more." 

"But  you  can  see  it's  nothing.  I  can't  under- 
stand your  being  so  excited." 

She  went  closer  to  him,  and  he  could  see  that  her 
body  was  quivering.  "Is  it  something  that  wouldn't 
have  happened  if  I  hadn't  gone  away?"  she  asked. 

"It's  nothing  at  all — and  it  would  have  hap- 
pened in  any  case.  I've  only  sprained  my  ankle. 
I'm  ashamed  to  mention  such  a  Httle  thing.    And 

284 


Bonnie  May  Hides  Something 

for  goodness'  sake,  don't  look  as  if  I'd  had  my 
head  cut  off  and  you  were  to  blame." 

She  sat  down  a  distance  from  his  bed,  a  strangely 
tmhappy  Httle  creature.  Her  sharp  uneasiness  gave 
place  to  a  dull,  increasing  apathy.  She  was  not 
looking  at  Baron  now. 

He  couldn't  stand  that.  "Did  you  see  the  play 
last  night?"  he  asked  pleasantly. 

She  stared  at  him.  "Did  I  see  it?  Certainly 
not.    How  could  I?" 

She  was  studying  his  eyes,  and  swiftly  the  misery 
in  her  own  was  multiplied  many  times. 

He  almost  lost  patience  with  her.  "Well,  good 
gracious !  Don't  take  it  so  much  to  heart.  There 
will  be  other  chances.  It  made  good,  you  know. 
It  will  have  a  run  sometime.  We'U  see  it,  you  and 
I  together." 

"Yes,"  she  said,  and  sighed.  A  settled  look  of 
misery  returned  to  her  eyes. 

She  did  not  leave  the  mansion  for  many  days. 
Her  sprightly  moods  returned  to  her  occasionally; 
yet  it  was  not  to  be  ignored  that  in  some  strange 
fashion  she  was  changed. 

She  spent  much  of  her  time  in  Baron's  room. 
She  became  almost  irritatingly  eager  to  serve  him. 
She  seemed  to  be  wishing  to  atone  for  something — 
to  re-estabhsh  herself  in  her  own  confidence  and  re- 
spect. That  was  how  it  seemed  to  Baron,  after  he 
had  observ'ed  her  studiously  a  score  of  times. 

285      ' 


Bonnie  May 

Occasionally  he  drove  her  from  his  room,  achiev- 
ing this  by  gay  upbraidings.  He  insisted  upon 
having  the  daily  lessons  attended  to,  and  it  was 
with  the  hveliest  interest  that  he  Hstened  to  the 
little  tinkling  melodies  she  played,  slowly  and  with 
many  an  error.  He  realized  that  a  great  deal  of 
progress  was  being  made.  His  mother  was  patient, 
and  Bonnie  May  was  a  painstaking  pupil. 

Baggot  came  in  in  the  course  of  a  day  or  two. 
He  was  cultivating  a  new  sort  of  manner,  in  which 
there  was  much  condescension.  His  tone  seemed 
to  say:  "You  see,  I  succeeded,  even  if  you  did  fail 
me. 

"I'm  sure  the  play  is  going  to  be  a  winner,"  said 
Baron. 

"Oh,  yes — it  will  go  all  right.  I'm  overhauling 
it  a  bit.  We  only  gave  it  that  first  performance 
so  I  could  see  just  how  to  finish  it,  and  to  get  our 
copyright,  and  that  sort  of  thing.  It  will  go  on 
regularly,  you  know,  this  fall." 

Baggot  had  received  his  promotion.  Baron  re- 
flected. He  would  go  forward  now  into  a  more 
active  life.  He  would  probably  be  seen  at  the 
mansion  a  time  or  two  again,  and  that  would  be  the 
end  of  him,  so  far  as  the  Barons  were  concerned. 

Another  visitor  during  those  days  was  the  beer- 
driver,  who  came  to  inquire  about  Baron's  condi- 
tion, and  for  further  manifestations  of  kindness, 
as  it  appeared. 

286 


Bonnie  May  Hides  Something 

Baron  tried  to  shake  his  hand,  but  the  task  was 
too  herculean. 

"I  might  go  out  the  back  way  and  slip  in  a  can, 
if  the  old  lady's  against  it,"  he  said,  flushing  readily 
and  smiling. 

"It  just  happens  that  I  don't  care  for  it,"  said 
Baron.    "I'm  quite  as  much  obhged  to  you." 

He  thought  it  was  rather  a  hopeful  sign  that  he 
was  genuinely  pleased  to  see  this  man,  who  had 
tried  to  be  a  good  neighbor. 

"August  is  my  name,"  said  the  visitor  as  he 
prepared  to  go.  "When  you're  near  the  brewery, 
ask  for  me.  You  could  go  to  a  dance  with  me  some 
night.  We  got  a  lot  of  fine  fellows.  Girls,  too." 
He  said  this  in  the  tone  of  one  who  would  say: 
"You're  plenty  good  enough  to  go  with  me." 

Then  he,  too,  was  gone. 

The  days  passed — more  days  than  Baron  liked 
to  count.  And  still  Bonnie  May  did  not  go  over 
to  the  Thornburgs',  but  haunted  Baron's  room 
early  and  late,  between  lesson  hours,  and  tried  in 
a  thousand  ways  to  serve  him. 

He  made  curious  discoveries  touching  her. 

Often  she  stood  by  the  window  looking  out,  and 
he  marvelled  to  see  her  body  become  possessed  by 
some  strange  spirit  within  her.  Her  very  flesh 
seemed  to  be  thinking,  to  be  trying  to  become 
articulate.  And  when  she  looked  at  him,  after  such 
a  period  as  this,  she  suddenly  shrank  within  her- 

287 


Bonnie  May 

self  and  gazed  at  him  with  a  wistfuhiess  so  intense 
that  he  felt  an  eager  wish  to  help  her — ^yet  also  a 
strange  helplessness. 

Once  he  cried:  "You  strange  little  creature,  what 
is  it?" 

But  she  only  shook  her  head  slowly  and  whis- 
pered, "Nothing" — though  he  saw  that  her  eyes 
j&lled  with  tears. 

Finally  Doctor  Percivald  called  again — three 
weeks  had  passed  since  the  patient  had  been  put 
to  bed — and  announced  that  if  Baron  would  con- 
fine his  activities  to  the  house  for  a  few  days  longer, 
he  might  safely  get  up. 


288 


CHAPTER  XXV 
BONNIE  MAY  SEES  TWO  FACES  AT  A  WINDOW 

It  was  at  luncheon,  and  Baron  was  down-stairs 
for  the  first  time  since  his  accident. 

"It's  just  hke  having  Johnny  come  back  from  the 
war,"  observed  Bonnie  May,  as  the  family  took 
their  places  at  table.  Baron,  St.,  was  not  there. 
He  usually  spent  his  midday  hour  at  his  club. 

"From  the  war? — Johnny?"  replied  Baron.  He 
stood  by  his  chair  an  instant,  putting  most  of  his 
weight  on  one  foot. 

"I  mean,  you  can  think  of  so  many  delicious 
things.  We  might  beHeve  you  were  woimded,  you 
know,  coming  home  to  see  your  wife  and  daughter. 
As  if  the  sentries  had  allowed  you  to  come  in  for 
a  little  while.  They  would  be  outside  now,  watch- 
ing.   Men  with  dirty  faces  and  heavy  boots." 

"Yes,  if  I  had  a  wife  and  daughter,"  suggested 
Baron. 

"Oh,  well — Flora  and  I.  Anyway,  you've  got 
a  mother,  and  that's  the  real  thing  when  there's 
any  soldier  business." 

"It's  a  real  thing,  SLnyway,^'  observed  Mrs.  Baron. 

"Yes,  of  course,"  admitted  the  child.  She  sighed 
deeply.    How  was  any  one  to.  get  anywhere,  with 

289 


Bonnie  May 

so  many  literal-minded  people  about?  She  re- 
membered the  man  in  the  play  who  said,  "If  we 
are  discovered,  we  are  lost,"  and  the  other  who 
replied,  "No,  if  we  are  discovered,  we  are  found." 

It  was  Mrs.  Baron  who  returned  to  prosaic  affairs. 

"I'm  going  out  this  afternoon,"  she  said  briskly. 
"I've  been  tied  up  here  in  the  house  three  Thurs- 
days.   There  are  people  I  simply  must  call  on." 

Bonnie  May  did  not  know  why  her  heart  should 
have  jumped  at  this  announcement.  Still,  there 
seemed  to  be  no  end  to  the  possibiHties  for  enjoy- 
ment in  a  big  house  when  there  wasn't  anybody 
to  be  saying  continuously:  "You  must,"  or  "You 
mustn't." 

She  wandered  up-stairs  as  soon  as  luncheon  was 
over,  and  in  Baron's  room  she  was  overcome  by 
an  irresistible  impulse. 

She  heard  the  houseman  moving  about  in  the 
next  room,  and  the  thought  occurred  to  her  that 
she  had  never  seen  the  houseman's  room.  She  had 
never  even  spoken  to  the  houseman.  There  was 
something  quite  mysterious  about  the  fact  that  he 
always  kept  to  himself. 

Mrs.  Shepard  had  assured  her  on  one  occasion 
that  Thomason  never  had  a  word  to  say  to  any- 
body— that  he  was  a  perverse  and  sullen  creature. 

Now  it  occurred  to  her  that  possibly  Mrs. 
Shepard's  estimate  might  lack  fairness.  Anyway, 
it  would  be  interesting  to  find  out  for  herself.  It 
woxild  be  a  kind  of  adventure. 

290 


Bonnie  May  Sees  Two  Faces 

She  tapped  lightly  on  Thomason's  door. 

After  an  interval  of  silence,  during  which  one 
might  have  thought  that  the  room  itself  was  amazed, 
there  was  the  sound  of  heavy  feet  approaching. 

The  door  opened  and  Thomason  stood  on  the 
threshold.  Bonnie  May  had  never  been  near 
enough  to  him  really  to  see  him  before.  Now  she 
discovered  that  he  had  quaint  creases  about  his 
mouth  and  eyes,  and  that  his  eyes  were  like  violets. 
It  was  as  if  you  had  dropped  some  violets  acciden- 
tally, and  they  had  fallen  in  a  strange  place.  There 
was  a  childish  expression  in  Thomason's  eyes,  and 
it  occurred  to  Bonnie  May  that  possibly  he  was 
afraid  of  people. 

It  seemed  to  her  quite  shocking  that  the  little 
man  should  remain  by  himself  always,  because  he 
was  afraid  of  mingling  with  people. 

Thomason's  eyes  were  very  bright  as  he  looked 
at  her.  Then  he  winked  slowly,  to  faciUtate 
thought.  He  was  thinking:  "She's  the  one  who 
does  whatever  she  pleases."  Despite  his  habits  of 
seclusion,  Thomason  was  by  no  means  obHvious 
to  the  Hfe  that  went  on  in  the  mansion. 

"May  I  come  in?"  asked  Bonnie  May.  She  did 
not  worry  about  the  absence  of  a  spontaneous  wel- 
come.   "It's  an  adventure,"  she  was  thinking. 

Thomason  laboriously  turned  about,  with  a 
slight  list  to  leeward,  and  ambled  to  the  middle  of 
the  room,  where  he  sat  down  on  a  bench.  He  took 
up  a  pair  of  steel-rimmed  glasses  from  which  one 

291 


Bonnie  May 

temple  had  been  broken  and  replaced  by  a  piece 
of  twine.  He  slipped  the  twine  over  his  head  and 
adjusted  the  glasses  on  his  nose.  It  seemed  neces- 
sary for  him  to  sit  quite  still  to  keep  this  contri- 
vance in  place.  When  he  reached  around  to  his 
bed  for  a  coat,  which  he  had  evidently  been  mend- 
ing, he  held  his  head  and  body  as  rigid  as  possible. 

Bonnie  May  advanced  into  the  room,  her  hands 
clasped  before  her,  her  eyes  quite  freely  surveying 
her  surroundings. 

"What  a  quaint  setting!"  she  observed. 

Thomason  jerked  his  needle  through  a  tough 
place  and  pulled  it  out  to  arm's  length,  holding  his 
head  with  painful  sedateness,  on  account  of  the 
glasses.  He  seemed  afraid  to  glance  to  left  or  right. 
He  made  no  reply  at  all. 

"I've  been  learning  to  use  a  needle,  too,"  she 
confided,  thinking  that  he  did  not  do  it  very  skil- 
fuUy. 

Thomason  held  his  head  as  far  back  as  possible 
and  closed  one  eye.  He  was  thus  handicapping 
himself,  it  appeared,  in  order  to  get  a  better  view 
of  the  work  he  held  on  his  knee. 

"Would  you  like  me  to  hold  it,  while  you  go 
across  the  room  to  look?"  she  asked. 

Thomason  suddenly  became  quite  rigid.  It  was 
as  if  his  works  had  run  down.  He  was  thinking 
about  what  Bonnie  May  had  said. 

Then,  "Women!"  he  muttered,  and  the  works 
seemed  to  have  been  wound  up  again. 

292 


Thomason  jerked  his  needle  through  a  tough  place  and 
DuUed  it  out  to  arm's  length. 


Bonnie  May  Sees  Two  Faces 

This  seemed  a  somewhat  indefinite  and  meagre 
return  for  so  much  cheerful  effort,  and  Bonnie  May 
decided  not  to  try  any  more  just  then.  She  went 
to  the  gable  window  and  looked  out.  She  was 
almost  on  a  level  with  the  fourth  story  of  the  build- 
ing next  door,  which  had  been  remodelled  for  use 
as  a  boarding-house.  And  looking  up  into  the 
window  nearest  her,  she  suddenly  became  animated 
in  the  most  extraordinary  manner. 

A  man  was  looking  down  at  her,  and  in  his  eyes 
there  was  a  puzzled  expression  to  match  the  puzzled 
expression  in  her  own. 

She  turned,  with  subdued  excitement,  to  Thoma- 
son,  sitting  on  his  bench  near  the  middle  of  the 
room,  with  his  bed  and  an  old  trunk  for  a  shabby 
background.    If  he  would  only  go  away ! 

She  looked  up  at  the  man  in  the  window  opposite 
and  smiled.  In  a  guarded  tone  she  remarked: 
"It's  a  very  nice  day!"  and  instantly  she  turned 
toward  Thomason  again,  so  that  he  might  believe 
she  was  addressing  him  in  the  event  of  his  looking 
up  from  his  work. 

But  Thomason,  beUeving  this  needless  remark 
had  been  addressed  to  him,  had  borne  enough.  He 
arose  laboriously,  grasping  his  coat  in  one  hand 
and  his  spectacles  in  the  other,  and  left  the  room. 
At  the  door  there  was  a  muttered  "Women!" — 
and  then  a  bang. 

Bonnie  May  clasped  her  hands  in  delighted  re- 
lief and  drew  closer  to  the  window.    "It's  CHfton !" 

293 


Bonnie  May 

she   exclaimed   to   the    man    in    the    window    op- 
posite. 

"It's  Bonnie  May!"  came  back  the  eager  re- 
sponse. 

"Oh!"  she  moaned.  She  smiled  up  at  the  man 
across  the  open  space  helplessly.  Then  she  took 
her  left  hand  into  her  right  hand,  and  shook  it 
affectionately. 

"You  dear  thing!"  came  back  the  word  from 
Clifton.    "Where  have  you  been?" 

"Oh,  why  can't  I  get  at  you?"  was  Bonnie  May's 
rejoinder,  and  she  looked  down  at  the  ground  and 
shuddered  at  the  abysmal  depths. 

The  man  she  had  called  CUfton  disappeared  for 
a  moment,  and  when  he  stood  at  the  window  again 
there  was  some  one  close  beside  him,  looking  out 
over  his  shoulder. 

"And  Jack,  too!"  she  breathed  eagerly,  yet 
fearfully.  It  occurred  to  her  that  some  one  must 
hear  her,  and  drag  her  back  into  the  tedious  realm 
of  conventionaHty  again.  For  the  moment  she 
was  almost  incHned  to  regard  herself  as  a  kid- 
napped person,  held  apart  from  friends  and  res- 
cuers. 

"If  it  isn't  the  kid!"  was  the  comment  of  the 
second  man,  and  his  eyes  beamed  happily. 

"You  both  rooming  over  there?"  asked  Bonnie 
May. 

"Since  yesterday.  We've  got  an  engagement 
at  the  Folly." 

294 


Bonnie  May  Sees  Two  Faces 

"And  to  think  of  your  being  within — oh,  I  can't 
talk  to  you  this  way !    I  must  get  to  you !" 

"You  and  Miss  Barry  stopping  there?" 

"Why,  you  see,  I'm  not  working  just  now.  Miss 
Barry " 

She  stopped  suddenly,  her  eyes  filling  with  terror. 
She  had  heard  a  step  behind  her. 

Turning,  she  beheld  Baron  in  the  doorway. 

"I  thought  I  heard  you  talking,"  he  said,  in 
quite  a  casual  tone.    "Was  Thomason  here?" 

"I  was  talking — to  Thomason.  My  back  was 
turned.  He  seems  to  have  gone  out."  She  looked 
about  the  room,  even  under  the  bed.  She  didn't 
want  Baron  to  see  her  eyes  for  a  moment.  "Such 
a  quaint  old  gentleman — ^isn't  he?"  she  commented. 
She  had  moved  away  from  the  window.  She  had 
almost  regained  her  composure  now. 

Baron's  brows  contracted.  He  glanced  toward 
the  window  at  which  she  had  been  standing.  In 
the  depths  of  the  room  beyond  he  thought  he  could 
detect  a  movement.    He  was  not  sure. 

"Do  you  and  Thomason  talk  to  each  other — 
quite  a  Httle?"  he  asked.  He  tried  to  make  his 
tone  lightly  inconsequential. 

"That  wouldn't  express  it,  so  far  as  he  is  con- 
cerned. He  won't  talk  to  me  at  all.  I  have  to  do 
all  the  talking." 

"And  do  you — ^feel  quite  confidential  toward  him  ?  " 

"Why,  I  think  you  might  feel  safe  in  talking  to 
him.    He  doesn't  seem  the  sort  that  carries  tales." 

295 


Bonnie  May- 
Baron  went  to  the  window  and  looked  out.    He 
could  see  nobody.     But  when  he  confronted  her 
again  his  expression  was  harsh,  there  was  an  angry 
Hght  in  his  eyes. 

"Bonnie  May,  you  were  talking  to  some  one  in 
the  other  house.  You  were  mentioning  Miss  Barry. 
You  weren't  talking  to  Thomason  at  all." 

She  became  perfectly  still.  She  was  now  looking 
at  him  steadily.  "I  was  talking  to  Thomason  until 
he  went  out,"  she  said.  "Then,  as  you  say,  I  was 
'talking  to  some  one  in  the  other  house.'  Why? 
Why  not?" 

The  docihty  of  the  home  Hfe,  the  eagerness  to 
be  pHant  and  sweet,  fell  from  her  wholly.  An  old 
influence  had  been  brought  to  bear  upon  her,  and 
she  was  now  Bonnie  May  the  actress  again.  For 
the  moment  benefits  and  obhgations  were  forgot, 
and  the  old  freedom  was  remembered. 

"We  don't  know  the  people  in  that  house,"  re- 
torted Baron. 

"That  isn't  my  fault.  I  happen  to  know  two  of 
them.  If  you  like  I'll  introduce  you.  Very  clever 
people."    Her  tone  was  almost  flippant. 

Baron  was  astounded.  "You've  found  friends!'* 
he  said.  He  couldn't  help  speaking  with  a  shght 
sneer. 

"You  don't  do  it  very  well,"  she  said.  "I  could 
show  you  how,  if  you  cared  to  learn — though  it's 
rather  out  of  date." 

"Bonnie  May!"  he  cried  reproachfully. 
296 


Bonnie  May  Sees  Two  Faces 

"You  made  me  do  it!"  she  said,  suddenly  for- 
lorn and  regretful.  "I  didn't  do  anything.  That's 
a  rooming-house  over  there,  and  I  happened  to  see 
two  old  friends  of  mine  at  the  window.  They  were 
glad  to  see  me,  and  I  was  glad  to  see  them.  That's 
all."  Her  expression  darkened  with  discourage- 
ment. She  added:  "And  I  wasn't  quite  imtruthful. 
I  had  been  talking  to  Thomason." 

Baron  meditatively  plucked  his  lower  lip  be- 
tween his  finger  and  thumb.  "I  was  wrong,"  he 
said.  "I  admit,  I  was  in  the  wrong."  He  tried 
to  relieve  the  situation  by  being  facetious.  "You 
know  I've  been  an  invaUd,"  he  reminded  her. 
"And  people  are  always  patient  with  invahds." 

"It's  all  right,"  she  said.  And  he  had  the  dis- 
quieting reahzation  that  she  had  grown  quite 
apart  from  him,  for  the  moment  at  least,  and  that 
it  didn't  matter  to  her  very  much  now  whether  he 
was  disagreeable  or  not. 

She  sighed  and  walked  absent-mindedly  from  the 
room.  She  remembered  to  turn  in  the  doorway 
and  smile  at  him  amiably.  But  he  felt  that  the 
action  was  polite,  rather  than  spontaneous. 

And  he  reflected,  after  she  had  gone  away,  that 
she  hadn't  volunteered  to  say  a  word  about  the 
people  she  had  talked  to  through  the  window. 


297 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

A  GATHERING  IN  THE  ATTIC 

When  Bonnie  May  went  down-stairs  and  learned 
that  Mrs.  Baron  had  gone  out  calling,  she  entered 
her  own  room  and  pushed  her  door  partly  shut, 
so  that  she  would  be  invisible  to  any  one  passing. 

Her  most  earnest  wish,  for  the  moment,  was  to 
see  her  two  friends  next  door.  Of  course,  she  would 
see  them  before  long,  but  she  did  not  like  to  leave 
the  matter  to  chance. 

There  was  no  reason  why  she  should  not  simply 
go  to  their  front  door,  and  knock  and  ask  for  them. 
No  reason;  but  undoubtedly  a  prejudice.  The 
Barons  wouldn't  approve  of  such  a  thing.  She 
really  hadn't  been  aware  of  the  existence  of  the 
house  next  door  until  now.  She  reaUzed  that  there 
were  worlds  between  the  people  who  Hved  over 
there  and  the  people  who  Kved  in  the  mansion. 
So  far  as  she  was  concerned,  the  Barons  were  a 
Family,  while  Heaven  only  knew  what  those  other 
people  were. 

Well,  she  would  think  of  some  way  of  getting  at 
Clifton  and  Jack  some  other  time.  Something 
would  happen.  And  in  the  meantime,  Mrs.  Baron 
was  gone   and   there   were   various   things   which 

298 


A  Gathering  in  the  Attic 

might  be  done  now  which  couldn't  be  done  at  any 
other  time. 

Rummaging  among  her  possessions  in  search  of 
an  inspiration  she  came  upon  a  hat  covered  with 
Httle  silk  butterflies. 

She  had  the  liveliest  appreciation  of  the  silk 
butterflies,  though  she  did  not  quite  approve  of 
the  shape  of  the  hat  upon  which  they  were  ^be- 
stowed. On  the  other  hand,  there  was  a  hat  of 
adorable  shape  which  had  an  insufficient  decora- 
tion in  the  form  of  a  spray  of  roses  which  were  not 
of  the  right  color,  and  which  were  in  too  advanced 
a  stage  of  development. 

In  another  moment  a  small  pair  of  scissors  was 
traveUing  over  one  of  the  hats  with  a  snipping 
sound  and  a  startlingly  destructive  effect. 

The  snipping  was  not  suspended  until  voices, 
subdued  and  confidential,  arose  in  the  near-by 
sitting-room. 

Baron  had  come  down-stairs,  too,  and  was  talk- 
ing to  Flora. 

"The  thing  for  us  to  do,"  Baron  was  saying,  "is 
to  go  places,  and  let  him  know  about  it  beforehand. 
Any  place  at  all.  For  a  walk  in  the  park,  or  to  the 
theatre.  I  wouldn't  be  in  the  way.  I  wotdd  know 
what  to  do.  And  after — that  is  to  say,  when.  .  .  . 
What  I  mean  is  that  in  the  course  of  time  you  could 
just  tell  mother  that  you've  made  up  your  mind, 
and  that  it's  your  business,  and  not  hers.  The 
thing  is  absurd.    She's  got  no  reasons.    We've  no 

299 


Bonnie  May 

right  to  let  her  have  her  own  way  entirely  in  such 
a  case." 

Bonnie  May  dropped  the  hat  into  her  lap,  and 
paid  no  attention  to  the  shower  of  butterflies  and 
roses  which  fell  to  the  carpet.  Quite  stealthily  she 
went  out  into  the  hall.  A  moment  of  indecision — 
and  then  she  descended  the  stairs  to  the  first 
floor. 

"There's  that  to  be  attended  to,  too,"  she  was 
reflecting. 

She  went  to  the  telephone  immediately.  She 
had  noiselessly  closed  the  dining-room  door,  so  she 
wouldn't  be  heard.  And  after  very  httle  delay  she 
had  Mr.  Addis  on  the  other  end  of  the  wire. 

"It's  Bonnie  May,"  she  said  in  response  to 
Addis's  greeting.  "I  called  you  up  to  tell  you  that 
you're  wanted  here  this  afternoon.  It's  really  im- 
portant. I  think,  honestly,  you  ought  to  come. 
Can  you?" 

"Why,  yes,  certainly!"  came  back  the  vigorous 
and  pleasant  voice  of  Addis.  "Yes,  I'll  come  right 
away." 

In  the  hall  she  paused,  thrilled  by  the  contempla- 
tion of  a  good,  forbidden  deed.  Then  the  warm 
sunUght,  finding  its  way  in  through  the  ground- 
glass  door,  enticed  her,  and  she  went  out  into  the 
vestibule.  There  she  stood  looking  out  on  the 
street. 

Clearly,  fate  was  on  her  side. 

Almost  immediately  two  inmiaculately  dressed 
300 


A  Gathering  in  the  Attic 

gentlemen,  moving  with  superb  elegance,  passed 
the  gate. 

Bonnie  May  ran  down  the  steps,  calling  to  them. 
"Clifton!"  was  the  word  that  penetrated  the  chaos 
of  street  noises,  and  "Oh,  Jack!" 

The  two  gentlemen  turned  about,  and  at  the 
sight  of  the  child  they  became  far  less  correct  in 
their  general  deportment.  Happiness  made  them 
quite  imconscious  of  seK. 

Very  shortly  afterward  a  Httle  girl  was  sitting 
between  two  altogether  presentable  gentlemen  on 
the  top  step  in  front  of  the  Baron  mansion. 

"Of  course  we  shoul.dn't,"  admitted  Bonnie  May. 
"We  never  sit  on  the  front  steps.  I  mean,  the 
Family.  But  nobody  will  know.  And,  besides,  I 
don't  see  how  we  can  help  ourselves." 

"We  don't  mind  at  aU,"  Clifton  assured  her. 
He  looked  inquiringly  over  his  shoulder,  into  the 
vestibule.    "What  is  it? — an  old  ladies'  home?" 

"Not  exactly.  It's  one  old  lady's  home,  and  you 
couldn't  get  in  without  a  jimmy  or  a  letter  of  in- 
troduction.   She  used  to  be  a  Boone." 

"Of  course  that  explains  it,"  said  Clifton. 
"What  are  you  doing  here?  Does  she  give  private 
theatricals?" 

"Not  intentionally.  No,  I'm  the  little  daughter 
of  the  house — a  kind  of  Little  Eva,  without  any 
dogs  or  fiddles,  and  I  have  to  go  to  bed  at  nine 
o'clock,  and  take  lessons.  It's  really  a  wonderful 
place.    When  we  all  sit  down  to  the  table  it — ^it 

301 


Bonnie  May 

sticks.    When  I  get  across  with  anything  neat  no- 
body whistles.    Far  from  it." 

CKfton  and  Jack  accepted  all  this  as  quite  defi- 
nitely informative. 

"Domesticated,"  explained  Clifton  to  Jack,  who 
nodded. 

"How  did  you  find  them?"  Jack  wanted  to 
know. 

"They  found  me.  There's  a  Romeo  in  the  house 
who's  the  real  thing.  Love  me,  love  my  Romeo. 
That's  how  I  feel  about  him.     He  brought  me  here." 

"But  where " 

"You  see,  Miss  Barry  wished  me  onto  one  of  the 
theatres  here  last  spring  when  the  going  got  rough. 
Put  me  down  and  disappeared.  j\nd  he  found  me. 
I  wish  to  goodness  you  and  he  could  get  acquainted. 
You  know  that  I  was  a  baby  only  a  few  years  back. 
But  just  because  I  don't  cry  for  bread  and  milk 
here  they  seem  to  think  I'm  Mrs.  Tom  Thumb 
come  back  to  earth.    You  could  tell  them." 

CHfton  and  Jack  leaned  back  as  far  as  they 
safely  could  and  laughed  heartily.  Then  they 
drew  painfully  sedate  faces  and  sprang  to  their 
feet.  A  soft  yet  decisive  voice — the  voice  of  a 
young  woman — sounded  behind  them. 

When  Bonnie  May  turned  around  she  realized 
that  she  and  her  two  friends  were  standing  in  a 
line  on  the  bottom  step,  looking  up  into  the  faces 
of  Baron  and  Flora,  who  had  made  their  appearance 
in  the  vestibule. 

302 


A  Gathering  in  the  Attic 

Flora  was  smiling  in  a  pleasantly  mischievous 
manner.  Baron  was  r^arding  the  two  actors  crit- 
ically, yet  not  with  unfriendliness. 

"Won't  you  introduce  your  friends?"  asked 
Flora. 

Bonnie  May  did  so.  She  concluded  with,  "old 
friends  of  mine  in  the  profession." 

"If  I  might  suggest,"  said  Flora,  "it's  ever  so 
much  more  comfortable  in  the  house,  if  you  don't 
mind  coming  in."  She  turned  to  Baron  with  shghtly 
heightened  color.  Her  glance  seemed  to  say:  "You 
can  see  they  are  gentlemen."  Something  of  con- 
straint passed  from  her  eyes  when  Baron  pushed 
the  door  open  and  turned  to  the  two  men,  who  were 
"in  the  profession,"  and  led  the  way  into  the  house. 

"DeHghted,"  said  Clifton,  mounting  the  steps, 
followed  by  the  other  actor. 

"You're  very  welcome  on  yoiu*  own  account," 
said  Baron,  "and,  besides,  we  all  like  to  do  any- 
thing we  can  to  please  Mrs.  Tom  Thumb." 

He  glanced  sharply  at  Bonnie  May,  who  nodded 
in  her  best  manner  and  remarked,  with  delicacy  of 
intonation:  "Caught  with  the  goods!" 

The  little  joke  paved  the  way  for  really  comfort- 
able intercourse,  and  there  was  a  highly  satis- 
factory condition  of  sociability  in  the  sitting-room 
up-stairs  half  an  hour  later  when  the  street  bell 
rang. 

It  rang  as  if  it  were  in  the  nature  of  a  challenge. 
And  the  ring  was  almost  immediately  repeated. 

303 


Bonnie  May 

"Mrs.  Shepard  must  be  out,"  said  Flora.  She 
went  to  respond. 

It  was  only  the  McKelvey  girls,  after  aU.  Bon- 
nie May  heard  their  gay  voices  in  the  lower  hall. 
And  it  occurred  to  her  that  there  was  danger  of 
certain  complications — complications  which  might 
not  be  whoUy  agreeable. 

She  turned  to  Baron.  "You  know  we've  a  hun- 
dred things  to  talk  about — old  times  and  old  friends. 
Couldn't  we  go  up  into  your  room  imtil  the  com- 
pany goes?"  She  referred  to  herself  and  the  actors, 
of  course. 

In  his  heart  Baron  could  have  blessed  her  for  the 
thought.  The  McKelvey  girls  were  on  their  way 
up-stairs,  and  he  was  not  sure  about  the  propriety 
of  bringing  the  McKelvey  girls  into  even  a  fleeting 
relationship  with  two  actors  whom  none  of  them 
knew. 

"Why,  if  you  like,"  he  said,  with  an  air  of  re- 
luctance— ^which  he  fully  overcame  by  the  prompt- 
ness with  which  he  arose  and  got  the  child  and  her 
friends  started  on  their  way. 

Flora  might  have  decided  to  entertain  her  callers 
in  the  room  down-stairs,  if  she  had  had  any  choice 
in  the  matter.  But  the  McKelvey  girls  had  always 
felt  wholly  at  home  in  the  mansion,  and  they  had 
begun  climbing  the  stairs  before  Flora  dosed  the 
street  door. 

Flora  paused  for  an  instant,  changing  from  one 
arm  to  the  other  the  huge  bundle  of  flowers  the 

304 


A  Gathering  in  the  Attic 

elder  Miss  McKelvey  had  thrust  at  her  upon  en- 
tering. A  wan,  resigned  smile  trembled  on  her 
lips,  and  then  she  tossed  her  head  ever  so  slightly. 

"Oh,  what's  the  difference!"  she  exclaimed  to 
herself,  and  then  she  followed  the  others  up  the 
broad  flight  of  stairs. 

Still,  she  was  somewhat  reheved  to  find  no  one 
but  her  brother  in  the  room  into  which  the  visitors 
led  the  way.  She  did  not  know  just  what  had  hap- 
pened, but  she  did  not  ask  any  questions.  And 
then  she  heard  the  murmur  of  voices  up  in  the 
attic,  and  imderstood. 

She  brought  a  vase  and  put  the  flowers  into  it. 
"Don't  they  look  beautiful?"  she  asked.  She  had 
to  Hft  her  voice  a  Httle,  because  both  of  the  Mc- 
Kelvey girls  were  talking  at  once. 

"They  certainly  do!"  came  the  response  in  a 
wholly  unexpected  voice,  and  Flora  turned  and 
beheld  the  animated  face  of  Mrs.  Harrod,  framed 
in  the  doorway. 

"Mrs.  Shepard  asked  me  to  come  on  up,"  said 
Mrs.  Harrod.  She  looked  about  her  as  if  the  room 
were  empty.  "Flora,"  she  demanded,  "where's 
that  child  ?  "  She  had  laid  eager  hands  upon  Flora's 
shoulders  and  kissed  her  flushed  cheek  with  genuine 
affection.  She  had  also  taken  a  second  to  glance 
at  the  McKelvey  girls  and  say:  "How-do,  young 
ladies?" 

"Child?"  echoed  Miss  Baron. 

"That  perfect  httle  creature,  who  was  here  the 

305 


Bonnie  May 

last  time  I  was.  I  did  hope  she'd  let  me  in  again. 
Such  angelic  manners!  You  don't  mean  to  say 
you've  let  her  go  ?  " 

"Oh,  Bonnie  May!  No,  she  hasn't  gone.  She's 
quite  one  of  us  now.    Where  is  she,  Victor?" 

Baron  fidgeted.  "She  went  up  into  the  attic,  I 
beHeve." 

Mrs.  Harrod  made  for  the  hall  immediately. 
"I'm  sure  you  don't  mind,"  she  said,  without 
turning  around.  They  heard  her  climbing  the 
second  Jflight  of  stairs.  "You  young  people  won't 
miss  me,"  she  called  back. 

The  yoimger  Miss  McKelvey  suddenly  sat  up 
very  straight.  "What's  the  matter  with  you, 
Flora  Baron?"  she  demanded. 

"The  matter?" 

"The  way  you're  looking  at  Victor — ^yes,  and  the 
way  he's  looking  at  you.    What's  the  mystery?" 

Flora  Hstened.  Up-stairs  a  door  opened  and  shut, 
and  then  there  was  silence.  "I  was  wondering  if 
Mrs.  Harrod  would  find  things  just  to  her  Hking 
up  there,"  she  explained. 

"Oh!  Well,  if  she  doesn't,  it  will  be  her  own 
fault.  People  who  take  possession  of  a  house  can't 
be  too  particular." 

"I  suppose  not,"  admitted  Flora  thoughtfully. 
She  was  Hstening  intently  again.  There  was  a 
movement  down-stairs.  Mrs.  Shepard  was  serenely 
complaining  to  herself  on  the  ground  of  many  in- 
terruptions.   The  street  door  opened  and  shut  and 

306 


A  Gathering  in  the  Attic 

Flora  heard  resonant,  familiar  tones.  Baron  heard 
them,  too. 

"I'll  see,"  Mrs.  Shepard  was  heard  to  say,  and 
then  there  was  the  sound  of  her  heavy  tread  on  the 
stairs. 

Again  Flora  and  Victor  looked  at  each  other 
dubiously. 

"What  is  the  matter  with  you?"  demanded  Miss 
McKelvey — the  other  Miss  McKelvey,  this  time. 

Flora  leaned  back  against  the  mantel  almost 
hmply  and  laughed — not  the  laugh  of  Bonnie  May's 
lessons,  but  the  old  contralto  gurgle.  "Nothing," 
she  said.  Her  cheeks  flamed,  her  eyes  were  filled 
with  a  soft  light. 

"Mr.  Addis  has  called  to  see  Miss  Baron,"  an- 
nounced Mrs.  Shepard  truculently  in  the  doorway. 

"I'll  go  right  down,"  said  Flora. 

"Oh!"  exclaimed  the  elder  Miss  McKelvey. 

"Oh!"  echoed  her  sister. 

They  arose  as  by  a  common  impulse  and  stole 
out  into  the  hall.  "We  don't  care  if  we  do,"  they 
flung  back  in  a  whisper  as  they  tiptoed  to  the 
stair  railing.  They  came  hurrying  back  with  ec- 
static twitterings.  "You  know  you  never  enter- 
tain company  in  that  dark  room  down-stairs,  Flora 
Baron !    You've  got  to  bring  him  up !" 

Flora  gazed  at  them  in  rebeUious  misery. 

"WeU,  then,"  exclaimed  the  younger  Miss  Mc- 
Kelvey, seizing  her  sister's  hand,  "we'll  go  up  into 
the  attic  I" 

307 


Bonnie  May 

And  they  were  gone. 

"Oh!"  cried  Flora  hopelessly,  "it  shows  what 
one  criminal  act  will  lead  to !" 

"There  was  no  criminal  act,"  retorted  Baron. 
"Nothing  is  really  wrong.  Have  him  up!"  His 
tone  seemed  to  say:  "Assert  your  right!  I'll  back 
you  up!" 

He  went  to  the  head  of  the  stairway.  "Come 
right  up,  Addis,"  he  called.  He  tried  to  throw  a 
great  deal  of  cordiality  into  his  voice. 

Flora's  hands  went  to  her  temples  in  a  gesture 
of  despair.  "You  invited  him  here  in  mother's 
absence — ^you  know  you  did!"  she  cried. 

"I  didn't.  But  I  wouldn't  care  if  I  had.  I'd 
have  done  it  if  I'd  had  the  wit  to  think  of  it.  Why 
shouldn't  he  come?" 

"I  won't  have  him  come  in  this  way.  Until 
mother — "  She  slipped  from  the  room  without 
finishing  her  sentence. 

"What  do  you  intend  to  do?"  demanded 
Baron. 

"There's  only  one  thing  to  do.  I  think  I  may 
be  needed  elsewhere  just  now.  I'm  going  up  into 
the  attic." 

But  as  she  made  her  escape  she  glanced  down 
the  stairs.  Somebody  was  coming  up.  There  was 
the  stubborn  black  hair,  the  ruddy  cheeks,  and  the 
close-cropped  black  mustache 

But  she  was  gone. 

Mr.  Addis  mounted  the  stairs  with  the  determina- 

308 


A  Gathering  in  the  Attic 

tion  of  one  who  goes  more  than  half-way  to  meet 
destmy. 

"Come  in!"  called  Baron.  "Excuse  me  for  not 
coming  to  meet  you.  You  know  I've  got  a  bad 
ankle." 

"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Addis,  whose  robust  presence 
somehow  had  the  effect  of  making  all  the  aspects 
of  the  room  effeminate  and  trivial.  "You — ^were 
expecting  me?" 

"No — that  is,"  bungled  Baron,  "we're  delighted 
to  have  you  call." 

Addis  reflected.    "And  Miss  Baron?"  he  asked. 

"She's  up  in  the  attic  just  now.  There  are  some 
callers,  I  beheve." 

A  dull  flush  mounted  to  the  visitor's  forehead. 
"I'm  afraid  I  made  a  mistake,"  he  said.  He  arose, 
casting  a  keen  glance  at  Baron. 

"You  didn't.  You  didn't  make  any  mistake  at 
all.  We  won't  wait  for  them  to  come  down.  Come, 
let's  follow,  if  you  don't  mind." 

"FoUow— "  said  Addis. 

"We'll  go  up  to  the  attic." 


309 


CHAPTER  XXVII 
WHAT  HAPPENED  IN  THE  ATTIC 

When  Bonnie  May  got  up  into  the  attic  she  gave 
one  swift  thought  to  the  fact  that  Mr.  Addis  would 
be  coming  to  the  house  before  long,  and  that  she 
would  not  be  free  to  receive  him.  Flora  would  be 
surprised  to  see  him;  but  then,  she  concluded, 
Flora  ought  to  think  all  the  more  highly  of  him  if 
she  decided  that  he  had  come  without  waiting  for 
an  invitation. 

Then  her  mind  was  diverted  from  Mr.  Addis  and 
his  affairs.  It  was  diverted  by  an  impulse  which 
compelled  her  to  put  her  arms  swiftly  about  Clif- 
ton's neck,  and  Jack's,  and  express  again  her  joy 
at  seeing  them. 

"You  dear  boys!"  she  exclaimed,  "it  makes  me 
feel  so  good — and  so  bad — to  see  you  again.  Oh, 
those  old  days ! " 

They  all  foxmd  chairs,  and  for  a  little  time  Bon- 
nie May  leaned  forward  in  hers,  her  shoulders 
drooping,  her  eyes  filled  with  yearning.  Then  she 
aroused  herself.  "Do  you  remember  the  time  we 
went  to  Cheyenne  in  a  sort  of  coach,  and  the  sol- 
diers made  us  have  dinner — 3.  Christmas  dinner — 
with  them?"  she  asked. 

310 


what  Happened  in  the  Attic 

Clifton  remembered.  He  said:  "And  you  put 
on  a  cap  that  came  way  down  over  your  eyes,  and 
ran  into  the  fat  old  captain  who  had  come  in  'un- 
beknownst,' as  one  of  the  soldiers  said,  to  inspect 
the  quarters ! " 

Said  Bonnie  May:  "And  the  soldiers  wanted  us 
to  change  our  play,  'The  Captain's  Daughter,'  so 
that  it  would  be  a  military  play  instead  of  a  sea 
story!" 

There  was  a  moment  of  silence,  and  then,  for  no 
apparent  reason,  the  child  and  her  visitors  joined 
in  a  chorus  of  laughter. 

"That  old  play — I  remember  every  word  of  the 
heroine's  part!"  said  Bonnie  May.  "She  wasn't 
much,  was  she?  I  remember  wishing  I  was  big 
enough  to  have  the  part  instead  of  her." 

She  shook  her  head  gently  in  the  ecstasy  of  re- 
calling the  old  atmosphere,  the  old  ambitions,  the 
old  adventures.  Then  she  clasped  her  hands  and 
exclaimed:  "Let's  do  an  act  of  it,  just  for  fun! 
Oh,  let's  do !  If  you  could  only  think  how  hungry 
I've  been " 

She  did  not  wait  for  an  answer.  She  hurried  to 
Thomason's  door  and  knocked.  Her  movements 
expressed  a  very  frenzy  of  desire — of  need.  When 
Thomason  did  not  respond  she  opened  his  door,  and 
looked  into  his  room. 

"He's  not  here!"  she  exclaimed.  "Come — ^his 
things  wiU  make  the  grandest  sailors  out  of  you!" 
She  had  them  in  Thomason's  room  in  no  time. 

3" 


Bonnie  May 

"But  we  can't  both  be  sailors,"  objected  Jack. 
"We'll  need  a  captain." 

"We'll  imagine  him.  He'll  be  out  of  sight  some- 
where."   She  opened  Thomason's  trunk. 

"It's  not — Romeo's,  is  it?"  asked  CHfton  du- 
biously. 

Bonnie  May  only  emitted  a  little  scream  of  de- 
Hght.  She  had  caught  sight  of  two  red  bandanna 
handkerchiefs.  She  had  them  out  swiftly.  Also 
a  new  canvas  coat,  and  an  old  one. 

Then  she  heard  some  one  entering  the  room. 
Thomason  came  and  stood  beside  her,  to  see  what 
she  was  doing.  He  looked  into  the  trunk  as  if  he 
were  curious  to  see  what  was  in  it. 

Her  manner  betrayed  no  confusion  at  all.  "So 
glad  you've  come!"  she  said.  "It's  going  to  be  a 
play.  Oh,  the  very  thing !  You  can  be  one  of  the 
sailors,  Thomason,  and  then  we  can  have  the  cap- 
tain, too."  She  appealed  to  Clifton  and  Jack. 
"Won't  he  make  a  perfectly  splendid  sailor?"  she 
demanded. 

They  agreed  that  he  would  be  an  ideal  sailor. 

Thomason  hadn't  the  sHghtest  idea  what  it  all 
meant.  But  when  she  tied  one  of  the  red  bandanna 
handkerchiefs  in  a  special  fashion  around  the  neck 
of  one  of  the  actors,  he  concluded  that  it  was  going 
to  be  some  kind  of  a  game.  Or  possibly  he  feared 
he  was  going  to  lose  his  handkerchiefs. 

"Put  one  on  me!"  he  suggested. 

And  Bonnie  May  put  one  on  him. 
312 


What  Happened  in  the  Attic' 

Then  she  happened  to  look  at  one  of  the  window- 
shades.  "Earrings!"  she  exclaimed.  "They  used 
to  look  so  dehghtfully  wicked !" 

With  Clifton's  aid  she  removed  several  brass 
rings  from  the  window-shades. 

"I  won't  need  them,"  said  Clifton.  "You  know 
I  was  the  captain." 

So  the  rings  were  hung  in  Jack's  ears  and  Thoma- 
son's. 

"Splendid!"  cried  Bonnie  May.  She  inspected 
the  result  critically.  "If  we  only  had —  Hioma- 
son,  is  there  any  blacking?" 

Thomason  found  a  box  of  blacking  in  Baron's 
room. 

She  dipped  her  finger  into  it  and  drew  a  series 
of  sinister  lines  across  Jack's  imlined  face. 

Clifton  proffered  a  criticism.  "You're  putting 
on  too  much.    He's  to  be  a  sailor — ^not  a  pirate." 

"No,  only  a  sailor.  But  he  ought  to  look  a  little 
frightful."  She  stood  back  in  admiration  of  her 
work. 

Thomason  had  begim  more  clearly  to  under- 
stand.   "Put  some  on  me,"  he  invited. 

Clifton,  in  the  meantime,  had  foimd  a  golf  cap 
which  had  been  handed  down  from  Baron  to  Thoma- 
son. It  did  not  make  a  thoroughly  realistic  captain 
of  him,  but  it  was  the  best  he  could  do.  He  was 
trying  to  recaU  some  of  the  telling  phrases  in  "The 
Captain's  Daughter."  He  could  improvise,  if 
necessary.     He  looked  on  seriously  while  Bonnie 

313 


Bonnie  May 

May  put  the  finishing  touches  on  Thomason's 
face. 

It  was  then  that  Mrs.  Harrod  appeared. 

"Oh!  I'm  sure  I'm  intruding!"  she  cried.  She 
looked  with  profound  amazement  at  every  face  in 
the  room. 

"You're  not  intruding  at  all!"  declared  Bonnie 
May.  "It's  to  be  a  play,  you  know.  You  can  be 
the  audience,  if  you  will." 

Mrs.  Harrod  began  to  laugh  almost  helplessly. 
Then  she  checked  herself,  because  she  perceived 
that  Bonnie  May  was  deeply  in  earnest. 

"Of  course!"  she  responded.  "I  make  a  very 
good  audience.    I'U  be  delighted  to  help." 

She  took  a  chair  and  became,  immediately,  a 
highly  inspiring  audience.  Still,  she  was  amazed. 
She  had  never  been  told  by  any  of  the  Barons  that 
Bonnie  May  had  formerly  been  "of  the  profes- 
sion." 

"We'U  do  only  the  third  act,"  decided  Bonnie 
May,  addressing  the  two  actors,  "where  the  ship 
sinks,  and  the  raft  is  seen  at  sea."  She  ended  by 
glancing  at  Mrs.  Harrod,  who  nodded  as  if  she 
really  preferred  to  witness  only  the  third  act. 

"We'U  need  a  raft,  of  course,"  she  said.  She 
glanced  about  the  room.  The  trunk  was  not  large 
enough  to  hold  two  and  contribute  to  a  realistic 
effect.  "It  will  have  to  be  the  bed,"  she  decided. 
"Thomason,  you  and  Jack  will  sit  on  the  bed. 
And  you'U  have  to  remember  that  you're  on  a 

314 


What  Happened  in  the  Attic 

raft  in  a  storm.  The  storm  is  so  severe  that  you 
nearly  fall  off  the  raft." 

"Is  it?"  asked  Thomason.  He  seemed  incred- 
ulous, 

"It  wiU  be.  Jack  will  let  you  know  when.  You 
look  at  him  once  in  a  while  and  do  just  as  he  does." 

There  was  an  explosion  of  shrill  laughter  in  the 
adjoining  room,  and  then  the  McKelvey  girls  ap- 
peared. 

They  seemed  quite  startled  and  ready  to  run, 
even  after  they  saw  Mrs.  Harrod. 

But  Mrs.  Harrod  reassured  them.  "Come  right 
in,"  she  called  cordially.  "It's  to  be  a  play,  and 
as  yet  we  have  a  miserably  small  audience." 

They  drifted  a  Httle  farther  into  the  room,  wide- 
eyed. 

It  was  here  that  Clifton  rebelled.  "Oh,  look 
here,"  he  protested,  "it  will  look  so  silly!" 

"Just  because  we  have  an  audience!"  retorted 
Bonnie  May  blankly.  Then,  with  feeling:  "If 
you've  got  used  to  playing  to  empty  seats,  it  will 
do  you  good  to  have  somebody  looking  at  you. 
Now,  do  be  sensible." 

"I  shall  be  awfully  disappointed  not  to  see  the 
play — that  is,  the  third  act,"  protested  Mrs.  Har- 
rod. 

"Well,  go  ahead,"  said  Clifton.  But  he  looked 
decidedly  shamefaced. 

Bonnie  May  took  her  position  in  the  middle  of 
the  room.    She  meant  to  explain  what  it  was  they 

31S 


Bonnie  May 

were  about  to  do.  She  did  not  know  that  Flora 
had  come  in  and  was  standing  just  inside  the  door; 
nor  did  she  know  that  Victor  and  Mr.  Addis  also 
arrived  a  moment  later. 

"This  is  the  situation,"  she  began.  "I  am  the 
daughter  of  the  captain  of  a  saihng  vessel.  Two 
of  the  sailors  love  me,  but  they  have  to  keep  still 
about  it,  because  I  am  so  far  above  them.  We're 
aU  on  the  ship,  on  a  voyage,  you  understand.  I 
love  one  of  the  sailors,  but  I'm  afraid  to  admit  it 
for  fear  my  father  will  be  angry.  Then  one  of  the 
sailors  speaks  to  my  father — ^about  his  love  for  me, 
you  know.  But  my  father  tells  him  he  must  never 
be  guilty  of  such  boldness  again.  Then  the  two 
sailors  lead  a  mutiny,  in  the  hope  of  getting  control 
of  the  ship.  But  the  mutiny  fails,  and  the  two 
leaders  are  put  in  irons. 

"I  feel  so  sorry  for  them  that  I  plan  their  escape. 
I  know  I  cannot  marry  either  of  them,  but  I  pity 
them  just  the  same.  So  I  take  some  of  the  rest  of 
the  crew  into  my  confidence,  and  they  make  a 
raft  in  secret.  Then  one  night  when  we  are  with- 
in sight  of  land  I  get  the  other  sailors  to  let  them 
go — the  two  men  who  are  in  irons — and  throw  them 
overboard,  together  with  the  raft.  I  mean  it  all 
for  their  own  good,  though  they  make  the  mis- 
take of  thinking  I  wish  to  have  them  murdered. 
Of  course,  my  father  isn't  allowed  to  know  anything 
about  all  this.    It's  done  while  he  is  asleep." 

"A  likely  story!"  interpolated  Clifton. 
316 


What  Happened  in  the  Attic 

"A  very  fine  situation,"  amended  Bonnie  May. 
"It  is  arranged  that  the  sailors  who  have  helped 
me  are  to  tell  my  father,  when  he  wakes  up,  that 
the  two  prisoners  made  their  escape  and  were  try- 
ing to  murder  him,  when  they,  the  other  sailors, 
threw  them  overboard  in  a  desperate  fight. 

"Then  comes  the  third  act,  which  we  are  about 
to  present.  A  storm  comes  up  and  the  ship  strikes 
a  rock.  We  are  about  to  sink  when  the  raft  drifts 
into  sight.  The  two  sailors  who  were  prisoners  are 
on  it.  My  father  urges  me  to  join  the  sailors  on  the 
raft,  so  that  I  may  be  saved.  But  I  know  they 
beheve  I  plotted  their  murder,  and  I  am  as  much 
afraid  of  them  as  I  am  of  the  sinking  ship.  The 
climax  comes  when  the  ship  sinks  and  I  am  thrown 
into  the  sea.  Of  course  the  two  sailors  rescue  me. 
Now  we  will  imagine  that  the  curtain  has  just  gone 
up  on  the  third  act." 

She  turned  for  an  inspection  of  the  "company," 
and  caught  sight  of  Flora,  Victor,  and  Mr.  Addis 
just  inside  the  doorway. 

"Don't  mind  us,"  said  Flora.  "We  hope  we're 
not  interrupting." 

But  Bonnie  May  was  not  to  be  embarrassed  now. 
She  scarcely  took  pains  to  answer  beyond  a  swift — 
"Not  at  all !"  She  was  earnestly  shaping  her  mood 
for  the  work  ahead  of  her. 

Her  intensity  had  created  a  really  strange  at- 
mosphere. Nothing  louder  than  a  whisper  could  be 
heard  in  the  room,  and  even  whispering  soon  ceased. 

317 


Bonnie  May 

"Now,  captain — or  father — take  your  place  on 
the  bridge,  where  you  belong." 

Clifton  proceeded  with  the  utmost  seriousness  to 
climb  up  on  Thomason's  table.  He  stood  at  one  end, 
so  that  there  would  be  room  for  Bonnie  May  also. 

"The  sailors  will  now  take  their  places  on  the 
raft,"  was  the  next  order.  "You  know,  you're 
not  supposed  to  be  visible  until  you  hear  the  Hne, 
Hhe  ship  is  sinking,'  and  then  you  want  to  re- 
member that  you  are  in  a  violent  storm." 

Jack  and  Thomason  climbed  to  the  middle  of 
the  bed  and  sat  down  awkwardly,  both  looking  in 
the  same  direction,  like  rowers  in  a  boat. 

"And  remember  you  have  paddles  in  your  hands," 
reminded  Bonnie  May. 

"I  have  a  paddle,"  responded  Jack. 

"I  ain't,"  objected  Thomason. 

"Oh,  yes,  you  have,"  declared  Jack,  "one  just 
like  mine."  He  took  a  stroke  with  an  imaginary 
paddle,  held  suitably. 

"Well — I  have  a  paddle,"  conceded  Thomason. 

Bonnie  May  then  was  helped  to  the  "bridge," 
beside  Clifton. 

Clifton  began.  He  was  not  quite  sure  about  the 
lines,  but  he  recalled  the  situation  clearly  enough. 
"Best  go  below,  my  daughter,"  were  the  words 
which  filled  the  room  with  a  ringing  efifect.  "I 
have  not  seen  a  gull  since  the  second  watch  ended, 
and  they  do  not  hide  from  ordinary  storms.  I 
fear  we  may  be  caught  in  a  tempest." 

318 


'Look  at  them ! "  she  screamed.     "Look !     Look ! " 


what  Happened  in  the  Attic 

Bonnie  May  clasped  her  hands  in  a  frenzy  of 
earnestness.  Her  words  came  with  intense  elo- 
quence: "Let  me  stay  with  you,  father.  I  fear 
no  storm  while  I  am  by  your  side." 

Her  voice  filled  the  room  with  tones  which  were 
intense,  even,  resonant,  golden. 

Mrs.  Harrod,  regarding  her  incredulously,  put 
out  a  hand  and  touched  Flora  on  the  arm.  No 
one  else  stirred. 

There  came  Clifton's  response:  "But,  child,  I 
tell  you  Davy  Jones's  locker  fairly  gapes  in  gales 
like  this.    I  bid  you  go  below." 

The  response  came  with  even  greater  intensity: 
"But  tell  me  first,  father:  Would  a  raft  live  in  such 
a  sea  as  this?" 

So  the  rather  silly  lines  were  repeated,  back  and 
forth.  But  they  scarcely  seemed  silly.  The  two 
players  were  putting  a  tremendous  earnestness  into 
them,  and  the  "audience"  felt  no  inclination  at  all 
to  smile. 

The  two  players  came  to  the  point  in  the  story 
where  the  ship  struck  a  rock,  and  their  intensity 
was  more  than  doubled.  The  raft  began  its  part 
in  the  scene,  but  nobody  looked  at  it  for  a  time. 

Clifton  was  trying  to  compel  Bonnie  May  to 
consent  to  board  the  raft.  He  had  seized  her  arm 
roughly  and  was  threatening  her.  She  screamed 
her  refusal.  Then  it  came  time  for  her  to  behold 
the  murderous  looks  on  the  faces  of  the  two  men  on 
the  raft. 

319 


Bonnie  May 

"Look  at  them!"  she  screamed.  "Look! 
Look!"  She  pointed  at  the  raft,  her  eyes  wide 
with  terror.  The  "audience"  could  not  refrain 
from  looking  at  the  raft. 

Jack  and  Thomason  were  wielding  their  paddles 
with  great  vigor.  Jack  had  also  begun  to  lurch 
from  right  to  left,  as  a  man  might  do  in  a  storm- 
tossed  raft.  Thomason,  catching  the  drift  of  things, 
was  imitating  him. 

And  then,  unfortunately,  Thomason's  bed  gave 
way.  With  an  ear-spHtting  crash  it  collapsed,  just 
as  Bonnie  May  screamed:  "Look !    Look !" 

And  of  course  it  was  at  that  precise  instant  that 
Mrs.  Baron  came  rushing  into  the  room. 


320 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 
AFTER  THE  CURTAIN  WAS  LOWERED 

Mrs.  Baron  had  returned  from  her  calling  expedi- 
tion earher  than  she  had  expected  to.  She  had  had 
a  feeling  that  something  might  go  wrong.  Pre- 
science is  really  a  wonderful  thing. 

Now  as  the  poor  lady  stood  within  Thomason's 
room  she  was  quite  terrified.  For  the  moment  there 
had  been  a  dreadful  din.  And  now,  looking  at 
Thomason,  she  caught  the  rebellious  expression  in 
his  round,  innocent  eyes.  She  saw  that  he  had 
brass  rings  in  his  ears.  Unfortunately  she  did  not 
associate  the  brass  rings  with  the  window  blinds. 
And  his  face  was  horribly  streaked.  His  right  leg 
was  sticking  up  in  air  quite  inelegantly,  and  he 
was  clawing  at  some  other  unspeakable  person  in 
an  effort  to  regain  his  equilibrium. 

And  then  there  was  Bonnie  May,  with  an  insane 
light  in  her  eyes.  And  behind  Bonnie  May  was  a 
smirking  creature  who  grinned  maliciously  at  Mrs. 
Baron,  as  if  he  and  she  shared  some  guilty  secret 
in  common.    Certainly  she  did  not  know  the  man. 

Moreover,  there  stood  Flora,  looking  unspeak- 
ably demure,  with  the  man  Addis  by  her  side. 
Addis  was  looking  as  if  her  arrival  had  provoked 

321 


Bonnie  May 

him.  His  look  seemed  to  say:  "If  you  don't  like 
it,  why  don't  you  run  along?" 

Mrs.  Baron  did  not  stop  to  take  in  any  of  the 
others.  At  first  she  was  speechless,  as  the  saying 
is,  though  she  was  trying  to  shape  certain  com- 
ments which  she  meant  to  direct  at  Bonnie  May. 

She  opened  her  mouth  once  and  again  quite 
helplessly.    Then  she  found  her  voice. 

"You  little — ^limb  of  Satan!"  The  words  came 
with  difiiculty.  In  that  instant  her  features  looked 
quite  unlovely.  Bonnie  May  might  have  told  her 
that  elderly  people  ought  never,  under  any  circum- 
stances, to  become  violently  angry.  But  Bonnie 
May  was  in  no  condition  to  utter  elemental 
truths. 

"You  awful  little — ^wretch!"  added  Mrs.  Baron. 
"No  sooner  do  I  turn  my  back  than  you  disgrace 
me !    You  open  my  door  to — the  whole  street ! " 

Bonnie  May  was  blinking  rapidly.  She  was  very 
pale.  If  you  dreamed  that  you  were  finding  large 
sums  of  money,  and  some  one  threw  a  bucket  of 
cold  water  on  you,  and  you  woke  up  to  find  yourself 
in  the  poorhouse — that  perhaps  fairly  describes  her 
mental  state. 

She  had  not  been  quite  sorry  that  the  bed  col- 
lapsed. Some  of  the  secondary  cells  in  her  brain 
had  been  warning  her,  as  she  stood  on  the  "bridge," 
that  the  third  act  could  scarcely  be  made  to  come 
to  a  true  climax.  She  couldn't  be  projected  into 
the   sea  reaUy.     She  would  have  to  step   tamely 

322 


After  the  Curtain  Was  Lowered 

down  from  the  table  and  begin  to  talk  in  a  common- 
place fashion. 

Under  favorable  conditions  the  collapse  of  the 
bed  would  have  been  a  relief. 

But  now  she  stood  looking  at  Mrs.  Baron  try- 
ing to  reach  her  soul  through  her  angry  eyes.  She 
shrank  so  from  being  humihated  before  her  friends 
— the  old  and  the  new.  If  Mrs.  Baron,  who  had 
been  so  kind  in  many  unimportant  ways  and  times, 
could  only  spare  her  now ! 

"If  you  wiU  permit  me,  madam — "  began  Clif- 
ton. 

"Who  are  these — gentlemen?"  demanded  Mrs. 
Baron,  still  wrathfully  regarding  Bonnie  May — 
Bonnie  May  and  no  other. 

"They  are  my  friends,"  said  Bonnie  May.  " They 
have  known  me  always.  And  really,  you  know, 
we  weren't  doing  anything  wrong !" 

Clifton  had  assisted  her  to  the  floor;  and  now, 
after  an  appealing  step  in  Mrs.  Baron^s  direction, 
and  the  swift  conclusion  that  nothing  she  could  do 
would  save  the  situation,  she  broke  into  tears  and 
staggered  from  the  room. 

"Bonnie  May!"  called  Clifton,  with  overflowing 
solace  in  his  tone.  He  ran  after  Bonnie  May.  The 
other  actor,  casting  brass  rings  and  red  bandanna 
to  the  floor,  followed. 

"Emily  Boone!"  The  voice  was  Mrs.  Harrod's. 
"I  think  you  might  blame  us,  if  it's  aU  so  terrible. 
We  encomraged  her.    We  enjoyed  it." 

323 


Bonnie  May 

Mrs.  Baron  now  turned  toward  the  assembled 
group.  She  seemed  dazed.  "I — I  didn't  know 
you  were  here!"  she  said,  her  voice  trembHng 
weakly.  And  then — "I  don't  care !  What  would 
any  woman  do,  coming  home  and  finding  strangers 
and — and  such  a  scene  in  her  house?" 

"We  invited  them  in,  mother,"  confessed  Baron 
weakly. 

"Yes,"  echoed  Flora,  "they  were  old  companions 
of  Bonnie  May's,  and  we  thought  it  would  be  nice 
to  invite  them  in!" 

"And  I  suppose  you  invited — him  in,  too?" 
retaliated  Mrs.  Baron,  indicating  Addis  by  a  scorn- 
ful, slight  movement  of  her  head. 

The  effect  of  this  upon  Flora  was  most  distress- 
ing. Could  her  mother  so  far  forget  herself  as  to 
reveal  family  differences  in  the  presence  of  Mrs. 
Harrod  and  the  McKelvey  girls?  Her  wounded 
eyes  fairly  begged  for  mercy. 

Addis  promptly  came  to  her  rehef . 

"No,  she  didn't,  Mrs.  Baron.  I  just  dropped 
in."  His  voice,  by  reason  of  its  bigness  and  calm- 
ness, had  the  effect  of  making  every  one  in  the 
room  feel  how  petty  and  needless  had  been  the 
impleasantness  which  Mrs.  Baron's  arrival  had 
created.  His  hair  seemed  more  bristling  than  ever 
as  he  added:  "If  you  will  permit  me,  I'll  bid  you 
good  day."  He  made  a  rather  stiff  bow,  which 
was  meant  to  include  every  one  in  the  room,  and 
turned  to  go. 

324 


After  the  Curtain  Was  Lowered 

But  here  Mrs.  Harrod  interfered  again.  "Peter ! " 
she  called. 

The  uttering  of  the  unfamiliar  given  name  created 
profound  surprise  in  certain  minds. 

"Peter!"  she  repeated.  "I  won't  have  you  go 
away  like  that.  I  want  you  to  know  Mrs.  Baron 
better  than  you  seem  to  know  her.  She  doesn't 
mean  half  she  says.  Emily,  tell  him  I'm  right!" 
She  looked  commandingly  at  Mrs.  Baron.  It  was 
evident  that  she  had  a  nature  which  was  not  to  be 
subdued  by  trivial  mishaps. 

Mrs.  Baron  flinched.  "Who  is  Peter?"  she  de- 
manded feebly. 

"If  you  don't  know,  I  advise  you  to  cultivate 
your  son's  friends.  Do  you  mean  that  you  don't 
know  Peter  Addis?  Why,  he's  been  like  a  son  of 
mine.  You  ought  to  have  known  how  fond  I  and 
the  colonel  are  of  him.  I'm  surprised  you've  never 
met  him  at  our  house." 

"I  never  did,"  said  Mrs.  Baron,  swallowing  with 
difficulty. 

"Well,  for  goodness'  sake  let's  go  down-stairs — 
please  excuse  me  for  suggesting,  Emily,  in  your 
house — and  behave  oiu*selves.  I  suppose  we've 
all  been  at  fault — all  except  that  dehghtful  child. 
I'm  going  to  find  her  and  tell  her  so ! " 

"It  was  so  funny!"  declared  the  elder  Miss 
McKelvey,  appealing  tremulously  to  Mrs.  Baron, 
and  patting  her  on  the  arm.  She  thought  of  laugh- 
ing, which  was,  she  beUeved,  the  easiest  thing  to 
do  in  all  sorts  of  circumstances. 

325 


Bonnie  May 

Mrs.  Harrod's  brain  was  working  energetically. 
She  had  been  reading  various  faces,  and  she  reahzed 
that  even  yet  Mrs.  Baron  had  not  spoken  to  Addis. 
She  drew  conclusions.  On  the  way  down-stairs 
she  kept  Addis  close  to  her. 

"Do  you  know,  Peter,"  she  said,  in  large,  cheer- 
ful tones,  "I  think  it's  downright  shabby  for  you 
to  neglect  us  as  you  have  been  of  late.  I  miss 
those  old  evenings  so! — ^when  you  and  the  colonel 
used  to  come  in  from  hunting,  and  sit  down  and 
eat  like  two  famished  boys,  and  bring  the  atmosphere 
of  outdoors  with  you.  Do  you  remember  how  the 
dogs  used  to  slip  into  the  house,  in  spite  of  the 
colonel's  scolding,  and  put  their  heads  on  your 
knees  while  you  ate  supper?  Those  were  the  oc- 
casions that  made  a  home  worth  having." 

Addis,  entirely  satisfied  with  the  turn  affairs 
were  taking,  responded  eagerly:  "I  certainly  do 
remember.  I've  often  wondered  if  the  colonel  had 
Queenie  yet.    There  was  a  dog  for  you !" 

"Oh,  no!  Queenie's  been  dead  over  a  year.  It's 
Prince  and  Hector,  now — Queenie's  puppies.  The 
colonel  says  they're  every  bit  as  smart  as  their 
mother  was.  I  wish  you'd  come  out  soon.  On  a 
Sunday,  if  you'd  rather  find  us  alone.  We'll  sit 
out  under  the  grape-arbor.  You  know  the  grapes 
are  just  getting  ripe.  Those  little  vines  have  grown 
up  beautifully.  The  colonel  always  has  his  bottle 
of  what-do-you-caU-it  out  there,  and  his  pipe,  and 
I  send  the  servants  away  and  prepare  a  little 

lunch " 

326 


After  the  Curtain  Was  Lowered 

They  were  in  the  sitting-room  now,  too  eagerly 
engaged  in  their  conversation  to  think  of  sitting 
down,  and  Mrs.  Baron  was  waiting  humbly  to  regain 
control  of  the  situation. 

Mrs.  Harrod  was  not  unmindful  of  her  old  friend's 
discomfort;  but  she  had  an  idea  she  was  engaged  in 
giving  a  patient  a  dose  of  medicine,  and  that  she 
ought  to  be  careful  that  none  of  it  was  spilled. 

"If  you'll  excuse  me,"  said  Mrs.  Baron,  now 
thoroughly  dejected,  "I'll  look  for  Bonnie  May. 
I  think  I  ought  to  have  a  talk  with  her." 

She  had  heard  every  word  that  Mrs.  Harrod  had 
spoken  to  Mr.  Addis.    And  she  had  heard  enough. 

She  went  to  Bonnie  May's  room.  She  was  too 
confused  to  realize  that  Flora  accompanied  her. 
But  as  she  stood  staring  miserably  into  the  empty 
room  she  heard  Flora's  comforting  voice. 

"She's  probably  down-stairs,  mother,  with — 
with  her  friends." 

Flora  went  to  the  stairway  and  called.  There 
was  no  response.  She  Hstened,  anxiously  turning 
her  eyes  toward  her  mother;  but  there  was  no 
sound  of  voices  on  the  floor  below. 

"They  wouldn't  have  remained  in  the  house  a 
minute,"  declared  Mrs.  Baron,  who  was  now  frankly 
remorseful. 

"But  Bonnie  May — she  may  have  gone  back  to 
talk  to  Mrs.  Shepard,"  suggested  Flora.  They 
could  hear  Mrs.  Harrod's  voice,  pleasantly  master- 
ful.   She  had  introduced  Addis  to  the  McKelvey 

327 


Bonnie  May 

girls,  now  that  she  happened  to  think  of  it,  and 
they  were  sHpping  eager  gusts  of  laughter  and  dis- 
connected phrases  into  the  conversation. 

Mrs.  Baron  and  Flora  went  down-stairs  and  ap- 
pealed to  Mrs.  Shepard. 

Bonnie  May  had  gone  out,  Mrs.  Shepard  said. 
She  had  come  down-stairs  and  telephoned  something 
in  great  haste,  and  then  she  had  induced  her  two 
gentleman  friends  to  go  away.  An  automobile  had 
come  quite  promptly,  and  she  had  gone  away  in  it. 

Mrs.  Baron  turned  away  from  her  daughter  and 
rested  her  hand  against  the  wall  at  the  foot  of  the 
staircase.  Her  attitude  spelled  repentance  and 
fear. 

She  went  up  into  the  child's  room,  and  Flora 
followed  close  enough  to  hear  a  low,  tremulous  cry 
of  despair. 

"I  wouldn't,  mother!"  soothed  Flora,  whose 
eager  voice  brought  Mrs.  Harrod  and  the  others. 

Mrs.  Baron  was  standing  beside  a  Httle  work- 
table  and  a  chair  that  were  Bonnie  May's.  Her 
face  was  quivering.  "I'm  a  disagreeable  old  crea- 
ture," she  declared.  "I  don't  deserve  to  have  any 
happiness." 

One  hand  fumbled  with  a  handkerchief,  which 
she  lifted  to  her  eyes.  From  the  other,  slowly  re- 
laxing, a  handful  of  roses  and  ridiculous  Httle  silk 
butterflies  fluttered  slowly  to  the  floor. 

"I  want  you  all  to  leave  me — ^please!"  she 
begged.    "I'm  not  fit  to  be  seen."    She  put  forth  a 

328 


After  the  Curtain  Was  Lowered 

hand  to  Mrs.  Harrod.  "Do  come  back  again  soon," 
she  begged.  "And  you,  too,"  she  added,  extend- 
ing her  hand  to  the  McKelvey  girls.  And  then,  as 
she  dabbed  her  discolored  eyes,  she  concluded  with — 
"And  you,  too !"  She  glanced  aside,  but  her  hand 
went  out  to  Addis. 

Then  she  disappeared  into  her  own  room,  and 
softly  closed  the  door. 

Flora's  eyes  were  shining  as  she  escorted  the 
party  down-stairs.  "She's  only  gone  to  visit 
friends,"  she  declared.    "She'll  be  back." 

The  McKelvey  girls  burst  from  the  front  door 
ahead  of  the  others.  They  were  cheerful  creatures 
who  were  not  to  be  depressed  long  by  the  scenes 
they  had  just  witnessed. 

Flora,  standing  in  the  hall  to  let  the  others  pass, 
heard  them  shrieking  joyously:  "Oh,  what  a  lovely 
new  car  you've  got,  Mrs.  Harrod,"  and  then  she 
heard  Mrs.  Harrod  explaining,  as  she  emerged  into 
the  sunHght:  "A  birthday  present  from  the  colonel." 

They  had  all  passed  out  now  except  Addis,  and 
when  Flora  opened  the  door  a  little  wider  for  him 
he  stood  still  an  instant  and  looked  out.  The  others 
were  out  there  inspecting  Mrs.  Harrod's  new  car. 

Then  he  took  Flora's  hand  in  his  and  closed  the 
door  firmly  and  securely. 

It  was  fully  a  minute  before  the  door  was  opened 
again,  and  Addis  descended  the  steps  alone. 

Mrs.  Harrod  and  the  McKelvey  girls  forgot  the 
new  machine  immediately.    They  were  all  looking 

329 


Bonnie  May 

at  Peter  Addis.  And  they  were  all  thinking  pre- 
cisely the  same  thing,  namely,  that  they  had  never 
in  all  their  lives  seen  a  man  who  looked  more  ex- 
traordinarily handsome  and  happy. 


330 


CHAPTER  XXrX 
THE  MANSION  IN  SHADOW 

When  Bonnie  May  did  not  return  to  the  mansion 
that  night  the  fact  was  not  commented  upon  by 
any  member  of  the  family.  It  was  not  quite  re- 
markable that  she  should  spend  the  night  with  the 
Thomburgs.  That  was  where  she  had  gone,  of 
course. 

It  is  true  that  Mrs.  Baron  was  decidedly  uncom- 
fortable. The  rupture  that  had  occurred  was  more 
serious  than  any  that  had  preceded  it.  Possibly 
she  had  gone  too  far.  There  was  the  possibility 
that  Bonnie  May  might  nurse  a  very  proper  griev- 
ance and  decide  that  it  was  pleasanter  to  live  with 
the  Thornburgs  than  to  continue  her  residence  at 
the  mansion. 

In  brief,  she  might  refuse  to  come  back.  That 
was  Mrs.  Baron's  fear.  It  was  a  fear  which  hurt 
the  more  because  she  was  unwilling  to  speak  of  it. 

However,  when  the  next  day  passed  and  night 
came,  Baron  took  no  trouble  to  conceal  his  anxiety 
— ^for  still  Bonnie  May  had  not  returned. 

He  caUed  up  the  Thomburgs  by  telephone. 
Was  Bonnie  May  there?  He  asked  the  question 
very  affably.     Yes,  came  back  the  reply — in  an 

331 


Bonnie  May 

equally  affable  tone — she  was  there.     Would  he 
like  to  speak  to  her? 

No,  she  need  not  be  troubled;  he  merely  wished 
to  be  sure  she  was  there. 

Baron  beHeved,  without  expressing  his  behef  to 
any  one,  that  it  would  be  a  mistake  to  manifest 
anxiety  about  the  late  guest — or  probably  the 
temporarily  absent  guest.  So  it  came  about  that 
one  day  followed  another,  and  Bonnie  May  did 
not  come  back,  and  the  several  members  of  the 
family  pretended  that  nothing  was  specially  wrong. 

It  w*as  Mrs.  Baron  who  first  thrust  aside  a  wholly 
transparent  pretense. 

"That's  the  trouble  with  that  Thomburg  ar- 
rangement," she  said  at  dinner  one  day,  apropos 
of  nothing  that  had  been  said,  but  rather  of  what 
everybody  was  thinking.  "I  don't  blame  her  for 
being  offended;  but  if  the  Thomburgs  were  not 
making  efforts  to  keep  her  she'd  have  been  back 
before  now.  On  the  whole,  we  were  really  very 
good  to  her." 

"Oh,  I  shouldn't  worry,"  declared  Baron  briskly. 
"She'll  be  back.  If  she  doesn't  come  before  long 
I'll  go  over  there  and — ^and  tole  her  back." 

A  second  week  passed — and  she  had  not  re- 
turned. And  now  her  absence  was  making  a  dis- 
tinct difference  in  the  mansion.  The  dinner  and 
sitting-room  conversations  became  Hstless;  or  during 
the  course  of  them  a  tendency  toward  irritability 
was  developed. 

332 


The  Mansion  in  Shadow 

One  day  Mrs.  Baron  sought  her  son  alone  in  his 
attic.  Said  she:  "Do  you  suppose  she's  not  com- 
ing back  at  a//?"  She  looked  quite  wan  and  be- 
reft as  she  asked  the  question. 

Baron  felt  remorseful.  "Of  course  she  is,"  he 
assured  her.  "I'm  going  over  to  the  Thomburgs\ 
I'm  going  to  see  about  it." 

Bonnie  May  was  acting  foolishly,  he  thought. 
The  Thomburgs  were  not  keeping  faith.  Yet  it 
was  a  difficult  matter  for  him  to  make  a  clear  case 
against  either  Bonnie  May  or  the  Thomburgs,  and 
he  was  by  no  means  comforted  by  a  little  event 
which  transpired  one  morning. 

He  encountered  the  two  actors  as  he  was  leaving 
the  mansion,  and  his  impulse  was  to  speak  to  them 
cordially.  But  in  returning  his  greeting  they  mani- 
fested a  well-simulated  faint  surprise,  as  if  they 
felt  sure  Baron  had  made  a  mistake.  They  nodded 
poHtely  and  vaguely  and  passed  on. 

In  his  mind  Baron  charged  them  angrily  with 
being  miserable  cads,  and  he  was  the  more  angry 
because  they  had  snubbed  him  in  such  an  irre- 
proachable fashion. 

Even  Baron,  Sr.,  became  impatient  over  the  long 
absence  of  Bonnie  May.  ReaHzing  that  his  usual 
practise  of  watching  and  listening  was  not  to  be 
effective  in  the  present  instance,  he  leaned  back  in 
his  chair  at  dinner  one  evening  and  asked  blandly: 
"What's  become  of  the  little  girl?" 

And  Mrs.  Baron  made  a  flat  failure  of  her  effort 

333 


Bonnie  May 

to  be  indifferent.  Her  hand  trembled  as  she  ad- 
justed her  knife  and  fork  on  her  plate.  "Why,  I 
don't  know,"  said  she.  "You  know,  she  has  two 
homes."  But  she  was  afraid  to  attempt  to  look 
anywhere  but  at  her  plate. 

Baron  was  astounded  by  the  utter  dejection 
which  his  mother  tried  to  conceal.  Why,  she  loved 
the  child — really.    She  was  grieving  for  her. 

And  that  evening  he  emerged  from  the  house 
with  much  grim  n  ess  of  manner  and  made  for  the 
Thornburgs'. 

The  dusk  had  fallen  when  he  reached  the  quiet 
street  on  which  the  manager  lived.  Street-lamps 
cast  their  light  among  the  trees  at  intervals.  In 
the  distance  a  group  of  children  were  playing  on 
the  pavement.  Before  the  Thomburg  home  silence 
reigned,  and  no  one  was  visible. 

Yet  as  Baron  neared  the  approach  to  the  house 
he  paused  abruptly.  He  had  been  mistaken  in 
believing  there  was  no  one  near.  In  the  heavy 
shadow  of  a  maple-tree  some  one  was  standing — a 
woman.  She  was  gazing  at  the  lower  windows  of 
the  Thomburg  residence.  And  there  was  something 
in  her  bearing  which  seemed  covert,  surreptitious. 

He,  too,  looked  toward  those  windows.  There 
was  nothing  there  beyond  a  frankly  cheerful  in- 
terior.   He  could  see  no  one. 

What  was  the  woman  looking  at?  He  glanced 
at  her  again,  and  a  bough,  swaying  in  the  breeze, 
moved  from  its  place  so  that  the  rays  from  a  near- 

334 


The  Mansion  in  Shadow 

by  lamp  shone  upon  the  figure  which  appeared  to 
be  standing  on  guard. 

She  was  overdressed,  Baron  thought.  Under 
an  immense  velvet  hat  weighted  down  with  plumes 
masses  of  blond  hair  were  visible.  Her  high,  prom- 
inent cheek-bones  were  not  at  all  in  keeping  with 
the  girlish  bloom  which  had  been  imparted  to  her 
cheeks  by  a  too  obvious  artifice.  She  had  caught 
up  her  skirt  Hghtly  in  one  hand,  as  if  the  attitude 
were  habitual,  and  one  aggressively  elegant  shoe 
was  visible. 

He  had  paused  only  momentarily.  Now  he  pro- 
ceeded on  his  way,  passing  the  woman  in  the  shadow 
with  only  half  tiie  width  of  the  sidewalk  between 
her  and  him. 

He  had  recognized  her.  She  was  the  woman  who 
had  stood  in  the  theatre  that  night  talking  to  Thorn- 
burg — who  had  visited  Thomburg  in  his  office. 
Could  she  be  Miss  Barry?    Baron  wondered. 

A  maid  let  him  into  the  house  and  drew  open  a 
sliding  door,  revealing  the  lighted  but  empty  draw- 
ing-room.   She  took  his  card  and  disappeared. 

He  sat  for  a  time,  counting  the  heavy  minutes 
and  listening  intently  for  sounds  which  did  not 
reach  him.  Then  the  manager  and  his  wife  entered 
the  room,  both  bending  upon  him  strangely  ex- 
pectant glances. 

Baron  arose.  "IVe  taken  the  liberty — "  he 
began,  but  Thomburg  instantly  swept  all  formal- 
ities aside. 

335 


Bonnie  May 

"That's  all  right,"  he  said.  "Keep  your  seat." 
Then,  obviously,  they  waited  for  something  which 
they  expected  he  had  come  to  say. 

But  he  was  Ustening  for  the  sound  of  Bonnie 
May's  voice.  He  seemed  almost  absent-minded 
to  the  man  and  woman  who  were  intently  regard- 
ing him. 

Then  Thornburg,  plainly  afraid  of  offending  his 
guest  by  a  too  impulsive  or  impatient  word,  fell 
back  upon  commonplaces.  He  concluded  that  he 
must  wait  to  hear  what  Baron  had  come  to  say. 

"You've  heard  about  Baggot's  good  luck?"  he 
asked. 

"I  think  not,"  replied  Baron,  not  at  all  cordially. 

"His  play.  They're  getting  ready  to  put  it  on 
in  Chicago.  His  people  have  a  theatre  there  that's 
not  engaged  just  now.  There's  to  be  an  elegant 
production — ^first-class  people  and  everything.  Bag- 
got's gone  on  to  look  after  the  rehearsals.  We 
ought  to  have  it  here  by  the  first  of  the  year — or 
earher,  if  a  number  two  company  is  organized." 

"I  hadn't  heard,"  said  Baron.  "I  haven't  seen 
Baggot  lately."  With  intention  he  spoke  Hstlessly. 
Thornburg  wasn't  coming  to  the  point,  and  he  didn't 
intend  to  be  played  like  a  fish. 

An  uncomfortable  silence  fell  again,  and  again 
Baron  found  himself  Hstening  intently. 

And  then  he  could  bear  the  suspense  no  longer. 
He  leaned  toward  Thornburg  with  animation. 
"Look  here,  Thornburg,"  he  said,  "I  don't  beheve 
you're  playing  fair !" 

336 


The  Mansion  in  Shadow 

"You  might  explain  that,"  responded  the  man- 
ager curtly. 

"You  know  what  the  agreement  was.  I  don't 
believe  she'd  stay  away  like  this  unless  she'd  been 
restrained." 

Thomburg's  only  response  was  a  perplexed  frown. 
It  was  Mrs.  Thomburg  who  first  took  in  the  situa- 
tion. She  arose,  painfully  agitated,  and  faced 
Baron.  "Do  you  mean  that  she  isn't  at  your 
house?"  she  demanded.  Her  voice  trailed  away  to 
a  whisper,  for  already  she  read  the  answer  in  his 
eyes. 

Baron  sank  back  in  his  chair.  "She  hasn't  been 
for  weeks,"  he  repHed. 

Thomburg  sprang  to  his  feet  so  energetically 
that  the  caller  followed  his  example.  "I  thought 
it  was  you  who  wasn't  pla3dng  fair,"  he  said.  And 
then  he  stared,  amazed  at  the  change  in  Baron's 
manner. 

The  younger  man  was  rushing  from  the  room. 
There  had  come  to  him  unbidden  the  picture  of 
the  two  actors  who  had  snubbed  him  in  front  of 
his  house — a,  recollection  of  their  studied  aloofness, 
their  cold,  skilful  avoidance  of  an  encounter  with 
him.    They  had  taken  her ! 

But  at  the  door  he  paused.  "But  I  telephoned 
to  you,"  he  said,  remembering.  "You  told  me  she 
was  here." 

"She  was  here  the  day  you  telephoned.  She 
went  away  the  next  day." 

Baron  frowned.    "She  went  away — ^where?" 

337 


Bonnie  May 

"She  went  in  the  machine.  Of  course  we  sup- 
posed  " 

Thomburg  hurried  to  the  telephone  and  was 
speaking  to  his  chauffeur,  in  a  moment.  "Oliver? 
Come  to  the  house  a  moment,  Oliver — ^and  hurry." 

He  replaced  the  receiver  and  hurried  back  to 
meet  the  chauffeur. 

The  soldierly  appearing  young  chauffeur  was 
standing  at  attention  before  them  in  a  moment. 

"We  want  to  know  if  you  can  remember  where 
you  took  Bonnie  May  the  last  time  she  left  the 
house." 

"Perfectly,  sir.  She  asked  me  to  stop  at  the 
Palace  Theatre.  She  said  she  was  expecting  to 
meet  a  friend  there.  And  she  told  me  I  was  not  to 
wait — that  she  wouldn't  need  the  car  again  that 
afternoon." 

Fifteen  minutes  later  Baron  was  ringing  the  bell 
of  the  house  next  to  the  mansion.  He  couldri't 
recall  the  two  actors'  names,  but  he  described  them. 
He  wished  to  see  them  on  urgent  business. 

But  they  had  paid  their  bill  and  gone  away. 
The  woman  who  met  Baron  at  the  door  was  sure 
they  had  said  something  about  finishing  their  en- 
gagement at  the  Folly  and  about  leaving  the  city. 

As  Baron  turned  away  from  the  door  it  seemed 
to  him  that  the  street  had  suddenly  gone  empty — 
that  the  whole  world  was  a  haunted  wilderness. 


338 


CHAPTER  XXX 
"THE  BREAK  OF  DAY" 

"Mr.  Victor  Baron,  please." 

An  usher  with  an  absurdly  severe  uniform  and 
a  frankly  cherubic  countenance  had  pushed  aside 
the  hangings  and  stood  looking  into  the  Baron  box 
in  the  Barrymore  Theatre. 

It  was  the  night  of  the  first  performance  of  Bag- 
got's  play,  "The  Break  of  Day,"  in  Thornburg's 
theatre,  and  the  Barons  were  all  present — ^by  special 
and  urgent  invitation. 

Baron  had  been  studying  the  aisles  full  of  people, 
eagerly  seeking  their  seats,  and  listening  to  the  con- 
tinuous murmur  which  arose  all  over  the  house. 
But  when  he  heard  his  name  called  he  arose  and 
sHpped  out  into  the  shadows. 

"Mr.  Thomburg  sends  his  compliments  and  asks 
if  you'll  be  good  enough  to  visit  him  in  his  office 
for  a  few  minutes."    Thus  the  cherubic  usher. 

The  Barrymore  office  was  off  from  the  lobby, 
but  it  conmianded  a  view  not  only  of  the  street 
but  also  of  the  procession  of  men  and  women  who 
passed  the  ticket-office. 

Thomburg  had  left  the  door  open,  and  Baron, 
approaching,  caught  sight  first  of  a  considerable 

339 


Bonnie  May 

expanse  of  dazzling  white  shirt-front  and  then  of 
the  manager's  ruddy,  smiling  countenance.  Evi- 
dences of  prosperity  were  aU  about.  A  procession 
of  motor-cars  continued  to  stop  before  the  theatre 
to  deposit  passengers.  Throughout  the  lobby 
there  was  the  shimmer  of  costly  fabrics  worn  by 
women,  the  flashing  of  jewels,  the  rising  and  falling 
of  gusts  of  laughter  and  a  chaos  of  happy  speech. 
And  everywhere  there  was  the  glitter  of  onyx  panels 
and  pillars,  and  the  warmth  of  hooded  Hghts,  and 
the  indefinable  odor  of  fine  raiment  and  many  deli- 
cate perfumes. 

Thomburg  seized  Baron's  hand  and  shoved  the 
door  to  with  his  foot.  Happiness  radiated  from 
him.  "I've  a  secret  to  tell  you,"  he  began.  "I 
want  you  to  be  one  of  the  first  to  know." 

"Let's  have  it!"  responded  Baron,  trying  to 
reflect  a  little  of  the  manager's  gayety. 

"You'll  remember  my  telling  you  that  I  had  a 
little  daughter  by  my  first  wife?" 

"I  remember." 

"I've  found  her  again!" 

"Ah,  that's  fine!" 

"And  that  isn't  aU.  You're  going  to  see  her  to- 
night." 

Baron  waited. 

"She's  the  girl  they've  been  making  all  that  fuss 
about  in  Chicago — who's  been  known  only  as  'The 
Sprite.'  She's  got  the  leading  part  in  'The  Break 
of  Day.'  " 

340 


"The  Break  of  Day" 

Baron  felt  his  way  cautiously.  He  couldn't 
mar  such  superb  complacency,  such  complete  hap- 
piness. "And  Mrs.  Thornburg — "  he  began  halt- 
ingly. 

"  God  bless  her,  it's  all  right  with  her.  She  knows, 
and  she's  as  happy  as  I  am." 

Baron  shrunk  back  with  a  sense  of  utter  loss. 
"Thornburg,"  he  said,  "I  want  you  to  tell  me — 
is  the  Httle  girl  the  daughter  of — of  Miss  Barry?" 

The  manager  clapped  a  heavy  hand  on  Baron's 
shoulder.  "No,"  he  responded.  And  after  a  mo- 
ment's almost  pensive  reflection  he  regained  his 
buoyant  manner  and  resumed.  "I'd  like  you  to 
meet  her.  Between  acts,  or  after  the  play.  You 
and  your  family.  She's  young.  I  think  a  Httle 
attention,  especially  motherly  attention,  will  mean 
a  lot  to  her  just  now.  Of  course  she  mustn't  be 
worried  to-night;  but  suppose  we  make  up  a  Httle 
party,  after  the  performance,  and  make  her  feel 
that  she's  got  friends  here?" 

Baron  couldn't  think  of  refusing.  "I'd  have 
time  to  pay  my  respects,  at  least,"  he  agreed.  "And 
I'll  put  the  case  before  my  mother  and  the  others, 
just  as  you  have  stated  it.  I  think  perhaps  she'll 
consent." 

"That's  a  good  feUow.  I'U  be  looking  for  you," 
concluded  Thornburg,  and  then  he  joyously  shoved 
Baron  out  of  the  office. 

The  footHghts  were  being  turned  on  and  the 
asbestos  curtain  Hfted  as  Baron  returned  to  his 

341 


Bonnie  May 

seat.  Then  the  orchestra  began  to  play,  and  under 
cover  of  the  music  Thornburg's  secret  and  his  in- 
vitation were  passed  on  to  Mrs.  Baron  and  to  the 
others  in  the  box. 

Baron  did  not  catch  his  mother's  response,  and 
she  did  not  repeat  it.  She  had  turned  to  Hsten  to 
the  music.  For  the  moment  the  orchestra  was  com- 
manding a  good  deal  of  attention.  A  cycle  of  pop- 
ular melodies  was  being  played,  and  under  the 
spell  of  the  singing  vioHns  the  outside  world  was 
being  made  to  recede  into  the  distance,  while  the 
mimic  world  became  real. 

Men  and  women  forgot  that  out  on  the  winter 
streets,  only  a  few  yards  from  them,  there  was 
passing  that  disinterested  throng  which  always 
passes  the  door  of  every  theatre;  the  eager,  the  list- 
less, the  hopeful,  the  discomraged,  and  that  sprin- 
kling of  derelicts  who  have  no  present  drama  at  all, 
but  who  are  bearing  inevitably  on  toward  the  final 
tragedy. 

The  orchestra  completed  the  popular  melodies; 
and  after  a  brief  interval  the  leader  rapped  his 
music-rack  with  his  baton  to  enjoin  attention. 
Then  he  Hf  ted  his  hand  as  if  in  benediction  over  a 
player  to  his  left,  and  a  wood-wind  instrument  an- 
nounced a  new  theme — ^penetratingly,  arrestingly. 
Then  the  strains  of  "The  Ride  of  the  Valkyries," 
with  their  strident  and  compelling  quaUty,  filled 
the  theatre. 

Baron  was  startled  by  the  touch  of  a  hand  on 
342 


"The  Break  of  Day'' 

his  shoulder.  Baggot  was  leaning  toward  him. 
"That's  to  create  the  right  atmosphere,"  he  whis- 
pered, nodding  toward  the  orchestra.  "It's  to  put 
the  idea  of  the  supernatural  into  everybody's 
mind,  you  know."    He  withdrew  then. 

Baron  thought  that  was  just  like  Baggot — to  be 
explaining  and  asserting  himself,  as  if  he  were 
doing  it  all.  He  was  glad  to  be  rid  of  him.  He 
wanted  to  feel,  not  to  think.  Then  he  realized  that 
the  musicians  had  laid  aside  their  instruments  and 
that  the  curtain  was  being  slowly  Hfted. 

Applause  greeted  the  setting.  The  stage  repre- 
sented the  heart  of  a  forest  in  midsummer — "the 
heart  of  the  summer  storms."  There  was  a  shad- 
owy dell,  shut  in  by  a  wilderness.  One  giant  tree 
in  the  foreground  rose  to  invisible  heights.  At  the 
back  a  Httle  stream  trickled  down  over  a  mossy 
bank,  and  during  its  course  it  formed  a  silent  pool 
in  one  silent  place,  and  before  this  a  Psyche  in- 
nocently regarded  her  face  in  the  mirror  of  water. 

Then  the  foliage  of  the  big  tree  began  to  be 
agitated  by  a  rising  storm,  and  the  leaves  shook 
as  if  they  were  being  beaten  by  descending  drops. 

For  a  moment  the  summer-shower  effect  con- 
tinued. Then  from  the  highest  point  on  the  stage 
visible  to  the  audience  a  character  in  the  drama 
appeared — the  Sprite.  She  sprang  from  some  un- 
seen point  to  the  Hmb  of  the  ancient  tree.  The 
limb  gave  gently,  and  she  sprang  to  the  next  Umb 
below.    The  secure  platforms  making  this  form  of 

343 


Bonnie  May 

descent  possible  were  hidden  from  the  audience 
by  heavy  foHage.  The  descent  continued  until 
the  fairy  figure  sprang  Hghtly  to  the  stage. 

She  was  clad  in  a  costume  of  leaves,  the  prevail- 
ing color  of  which  was  a  deep  green,  rising  to  natural 
tints  of  yellow.  She  wore  a  hood  which  was  cun- 
ningly fashioned  from  one  big  leaf,  around  which 
an  automobile  veil  of  the  gauziest  texture  was 
wound  so  that  it  concealed  her  face. 

She  began  unwinding  this  veil  as  she  spoke  her 
first  Hues. 

"Back  again  where  the  storms  are!"  she  was 
saying:   "Ah,  it  is  good,  after  that  dreadful  calm." 

Baron  realized  that  his  mother  had  lifted  her 
hands  to  her  bosom  as  if  to  stifle  a  cry.  For  him- 
self, a  thriU  shot  through  his  body,  and  then  he 
leaned  forward,  rigid,  amazed. 

For  when  the  Sprite  had  removed  the  last  fold 
of  her  veil  and  faced  the  audience  he  beheld  again, 
after  long  waiting  and  vain  search,  the  lost  guest, 
Bonnie  May. 

She  wore  her  hair  in  a  little  golden  knot  at  the 
crown  of  her  head;  the  waist-line  of  her  dress  was 
just  below  her  arms,  and  a  pair  of  tiny  golden  san- 
dals adorned  her  feet.  When  she  would  have  lain 
the  veil  aside  a  screen  of  leaves  parted  and  a  Titan 
sprang  to  her  side  to  render  service. 

And  so  the  play  began. 

But  for  the  moment  Baron  could  not  think  about 
the  play.    He  was  thinking  of  Baggot — ^Baggot, 

344 


"The  Break  of  Day" 

who  had  known  all  the  time.  Then  again  he  felt 
a  touch  on  his  arm  and,  turning,  he  found  himself 
looking  into  the  playwright's  eyes;  and  he  could 
perceive  only  the  dehght  of  a  childish  creature, 
jubilant  because  he  had  achieved  an  innocent  sur- 
prise. 

He  tried  to  respond  with  a  smile — and  could 
not.  But  Httle  by  Httle  the  play  caught  his  atten- 
tion. The  impression  grew  upon  him  that  "The 
Break  of  Day"  was  a  play  of  that  indefinable 
quaHty  which  goes  unfailingly  to  the  heart.  But 
more — he  realized  that  Bonnie  May  was  carrying 
her  audience  with  her  with  the  ease  and  certainty 
of  an  artist.  She  ceased  to  be  on  trial  almost  imme- 
diately, and  those  who  watched  her  began  to  feel 
rather  than  to  think,  to  accept  rather  than  to 
judge. 

When  the  first  intermission  came  Baron  slipped 
out  of  the  box  and  went  in  search  of  Baggot,  whom 
he  found  standing  apart  in  the  foyer. 

"I  don't  have  to  tell  you  I'm  glad,"  he  began; 
and  then,  with  furrowed  brow,  he  added,  "but 
surely  ..." 

Baggot  read  his  thought  accurately.  "I  wanted 
to  give  you  the  surprise  of  your  life!  You  can't 
help  being  pleased?" 

"Pleased!  Certainly!  But  we've  been  dis- 
tressed about  her." 

"Oh — distressed!  Well,  she  belongs  to  the 
theatre.    She  always  has.    /  saw  that  right  away ! " 

345 


Bonnie  May 

"But  if  we'd  only  known!  I  don't  suppose  we 
could  have  stood  in  the  way." 

"But  it  was  her  idea — at  first.  She  didn't  want 
you  to  know.  I  mean  when  we  put  the  piece  on 
here  for  a  try-out — at  first." 

"You  don't  mean " 

"Of  course!  It  was  when  you  were  laid  up.  I 
thought  she'd  lay  down  on  me,  because  you  wouldn't 
see  her  that  night.  And  then  came  the  Chicago  en- 
gagement. I  took  my  mother  along  to  look  after 
her.  I  didn't  know  she  hadn't  told  you  anything 
for  a  time,  and  then  I  left  it  to  her  to  do  what  she 
wanted  to  do.  It  was  always  her  idea  to  take  you 
by  surprise.  I  think  she  cared  more  for  that  than 
for  anything  else.  Great  goodness,  man,  you  don't 
imagine  you've  been  treated  badly?" 

Baron's  glance  became  inscrutable. 

"Why,  just  think  of  it!"  Baggot  went  on. 
"She's  drawing  the  salary  of  a  regular  star.  And 
her  reputation  is  made." 

Baron  turned  away  almost  curtly.  What  was 
to  be  gained  by  discussing  Bonnie  May  with  a 
creature  who  could  only  think  of  salary  and  reputa- 
tion— to  whom  she  was  merely  a  puppet,  skilled 
in  repeating  fines  of  some  one  else's  fashioning? 

He  entered  Thomburg's  office.  His  manner  was 
decidedly  lugubrious. 

The  manager  held  out  his  hand  expansively. 
"You've  come  to  congratulate  me,"  he  said.  And 
then  he  took  in  Baron's  mood. 

346 


"The  Break  of  Day^' 

"Oh,  I  see!"  he  went  on.  "There's  something 
that  needs  explaining.  I  played  fair  with  you  all 
right,  Baron.  You  see,  I  was  in  the  dark  myself, 
in  some  ways." 

He  took  occasion  to  light  a  cigar,  which  he  puffed 
at  absent-mindedly.  "Just  before  Bonnie  May 
showed  up  here — ^when  you  got  hold  of  her — I 
learned  that  her  mother  had  died.  It  had  been 
kept  from  me.  You  see,  I  was  sending  the  mother 
money.  And  when  the  Httle  one  was  only  a  year 
or  so  old  I  got  a  letter  from  her  mother  offering  to 
give  her  up  to  me.  I've  told  you  what  happened 
then.  I — I  couldn't  take  her.  Then  I  got  another 
letter  from  the  mother  saying  she  was  turning 
Bonnie  May  over  to  her  sister  for  the  time  being, 
and  that  I  was  to  send  the  remittances  to  her. 
That  was  Miss  Barry. 

"I  beheved  the  arrangement  was  only  temporary. 
I  didn't  understand  it,  of  course.  But  when  several 
years  went  by  I  began  to  suspect  that  something 
was  wrong.  I  didn't  like  Miss  Barry.  She  was 
never  the  woman  her  sister  was.  She  was — ^well, 
the  brazen  sort  of  woman.  I  wasn't  willing  to  leave 
the  little  daughter  with  her  any  longer.  I  wrote 
to  her  and  told  her  she  might  send  Bonnie  May 
to  me,  if  she  cared  to,  but  that  there  weren't  to  be 
any  more  remittances.  I  thought  that  would  fetch 
her.  I  meant  to  put  the  Uttle  daughter  in  a  home 
or  a  school  somewhere.  And  then  they  blew  in 
here,  and  you  got  her — ^and  your  getting  her  was 
just  the  thing  I  wanted." 

347 


Bonnie  May 

An  incandescent  light  on  the  manager's  desk 
winked  once  and  again.  "The  curtain's  going  up," 
he  informed  Baron,  and  the  latter  hurried  back  to 
his  seat. 

As  he  entered  the  box  a  flood  of  cold  air  from  the 
stage  swept  over  the  audience.  And  when  his 
mother  shivered  slightly  he  observed  that  Peter 
Addis,  sitting  immediately  behind  her,  quietly 
leaned  forward  and  Hfted  a  quilted  satin  wrap 
from  a  chair,  placing  it  deftly  about  her  shoul- 
ders. 

She  yielded  with  a  nestling  movement  and  with 
a  backward  flash  of  grateful  recognition  which 
told  a  story  of  their  own. 

The  audience  was  stilled  again  as  the  second 
setting  was  revealed — "the  home  of  the  autumn 
leaves."  Here  was  a  masterpiece  of  designing  and 
painting,  Baron  realized.  A  house  was  being  con- 
structed for  the  Sprite.  Much  disputation  arose. 
The  sort  of  talk  which  precedes  the  planning  of  a 
home  was  heard — save  that  the  terms  were 
grotesquely  altered.  Then  the  action  was  com- 
plicated by  the  arrival  of  a  band  of  vikings,  driven 
ashore  by  a  gale. 

And  then  Baron,  too,  forgot  that  Bonnie  May 
was  a  human  being,  as  Baggot  seemed  to  have 
done,  and  was  lost  in  the  ingenious  whimsicality 
of  the  play. 

It  was  after  the  third  act — in  which  there  was  a 
picture  of  cruel  winter,  with  all  the  characters  in 

348 


"The  Break  of  Day'' 

the  play  combating  a  common  foe  in  the  form  of 
the  withering  cold — that  the  Sprite  won  the  heart- 
iest approval. 

Thunders  of  applause  swept  over  the  house; 
and  when  the  effect  of  thunder  had  passed  there 
was  a  steady  demonstration  resembling  the  heavy 
fall  of  rain.  Again  and  again  Bonnie  May  bowed 
as  the  curtain  was  Hfted  and  lowered,  and  again 
and  again  the  applause  took  on  new  vigor  and 
earnestness.  And  then  she  stepped  a  Httle  forward 
and  nodded  hghtly  toward  some  one  back  in  the 
wings,  and  the  curtain  remained  up. 

She  made  a  Httle  speech.  It  seemed  she  had  a 
special  voice  for  that,  too.  It  was  lower,  but  elab- 
orately distinct.  The  very  unconventionaHty  of  it 
afforded  a  different  kind  of  dehght.  Her  manner 
was  one  of  mild  disparagement  of  an  inartistic 
custom.  She  bowed  herself  from  the  stage  with 
infinite  graciousness. 

She  was  a  tremendous  success. 

It  was  only  after  the  curtain  went  down  for  the 
last  time  that  Thomburg  appeared  at  the  Baron 
box.  The  scene  had  been  called  "Spring — and  the 
Fairies,"  and  it  had  put  the  pleasantest  of  thoughts 
into  the  minds  of  the  audience,  which  was  now 
noisily  dispersing. 

"I  hope  you're  all  coming  back  on  the  stage  for 
a  minute,"  said  the  manager. 

He  was  dismayed  by  Mrs.  Baron's  impetuosity. 
She  was  too  eager  to  remain  an  instant  talking  to 

349 


Bonnie  May 

any  one.  She  could  scarcely  wait  to  be  escorted 
back  to  the  stage — and  yet  she  had  no  idea  how  to 
reach  that  unknown  territory  undirected.  Her 
bearing  was  really  quite  pathetic. 

And  in  a  moment  the  entire  party  had  passed 
through  a  doorway  quite  close  to  the  box,  and  were 
casting  about  in  that  region  where  the  wings  touch 
the  dressing-rooms.  The  players  were  hurrying  to 
and  fro,  and  one  man,  carrying  a  large  waxen  nose 
and  a  pair  of  enormous  ears — he  had  been  a  gnome 
in  the  play — ^paused  and  looked  curiously  at  the 
very  circumspect  intruders. 

Somehow  it  did  not  seem  at  all  remarkable  to 
Baron,  as  it  might  have  done,  that  he  presently 
found  himself  confronting  Miss  Barry.  It  was 
plain  that  she  had  been  waiting  to  enter  the  child's 
dressing-room,  and  at  the  approach  of  Thomburg 
she  brightened — ^rather  by  intention,  perhaps,  than 
spontaneously. 

"Oh,  how  fortunate!"  she  began.  "You'll  be 
able  to  help  me,  of  course.  I  want  to  see  the  new 
star!  I'd  lost  track  of  her."  Her  practised  smile 
and  shifting  eyes  played  upon  Thomburg  menac- 
ingly, inquiringly,  appealingly.  "I  want  to  begin 
planning  for  her  again.  When  her  engagement 
here  is  over  I  mean  to  take  her  with  me  to  the 
coast.  She's  reached  an  age  now  when  I  can  be  of 
real  help  to  her.  Isn't  it  wonderful — the  way  she 
has  developed  ?  " 

Thornburg  had  paused  to  hear  her  to  the  end. 

350 


"The  Break  of  Day'^ 

He  realized  that  there  was  a  pitiful  lack  of  as- 
surance— of  conviction — in  her  manner. 

When  she  had  finished  he  smiled  tolerantly,  yet 
with  unmistakable  significance.  "No,  Miss  Barry," 
he  said,  replying  to  her  thought  rather  than  her 
words.  "That's  all  ended  now.  When  Bonnie 
May  has  finished  her  work  here  I  shall  see  that  she 
has  a  home  in  her  father's  house." 

The  party  moved  into  the  dressing-room,  where 
Bonnie  May  had  been  robbed  of  her  fairy  trappings 
and  put  into  a  modest  frock.  Her  hair,  released 
from  its  Httle  knot,  was  falling  about  her  shoulders 
and  was  being  combed  by  a  maid. 

But  she  escaped  from  the  maid — and  for  the 
moment  from  all  the  life  which  the  dressing-room 
impHed — ^when  she  saw  Mrs.  Baron  standing  in 
her  doorway. 

She  had  put  her  arms  about  the  trembling  old 
lady's  neck,  and  for  the  moment  they  were  both 
silent.  And  then  Mrs.  Baron  drew  back  and  stood 
a  moment,  her  hands  framing  Bonnie  May's  face. 

"You  do  forget  that  I  was  a  disagreeable  old 
woman ! "  she  murmured. 

"Oh,  that!"  came  the  warm  response;  "you 
know  you  forget  just  little  slips  when  you  are  happy 
in  your  work.  And  I  couldn't  have  remembered 
such  a  Httle  thing  anyway,  when  you'd  been  so 
lovely  to  me ! " 

She  took  Mrs.  Baron's  hand  in  both  her  own 
and  clung  to  it;  and  hfted  it  to  her  face  and  laid 

3SI 


Bonnie  May 

her  cheek  against  it.  "If  you  only  knew  how  I've 
thought  of  you — of  all  of  you — and  longed  for  you ! 
And  how  much  I  wanted  you  to  see  me  at  work,  so 
you  would — ^would  know  me  better!  You  know 
just  talking  doesn't  prove  anything.  I  wanted  so 
much  to  have  you  know  that  I  was  an — an  artist !" 

In  the  theatre  the  orchestra  was  still  playing 
while  the  people  filed  out.  In  the  distance  there 
was  the  muffied  sound  of  the  procession  of  motor- 
cars starting  and  of  announcers  shouting  numbers 
above  the  din. 

It  was  Flora's  turn  to  press  forward  and  take 
her  seat  beside  Bonnie  May  now;  and  while  Mrs. 
Baron  stood  aside,  smiling  quite  happily,  the  man- 
ager spoke  to  her  as  if  he  were  merely  continuing 
a  conversation  which  had  been  interrupted. 

"Yes,  I'm  particularly  anxious  to  have  you  go 
on  with — ^with  the  lessons,  you  know.  Not  just 
the  books  and  music,  you  understand,  but — ^well, 
say  a  general  influence.  You  know,  she's  tremen- 
dously fond  of  all  of  you.  I  mean  to  get  her  off 
the  stage  as  soon  as  the  run  here  is  finished.  It's 
time  for  her  to  have  a  little  real  life.  And  I'd  like 
things  to  go  on  about  as  they  were — I  mean,  having 
her  in  your  house,  or  mine,  just  as  she  feels  about 
it.  You  were  the  first  to  give  her  a  mother's  atten- 
tion. I'd  be  grateful  if  you  felt  you  could  go  on 
with  that." 

Mrs.  Baron  tried  to  answer  this  quite  punctil- 
iously, but  she  had  to  turn  aside  to  hide  her  eyes, 

352 


She  had  put  her  arms  about  the  trembling  old  lady's  neck, 
and  for  the  moment  they  were  both  silent. 


"The  Break  of  Day" 

and  when  she  spoke  her  words  were  a  surprise  to 
her. 

"I  think  you're  a  good  man,"  she  said.  And  she 
did  not  trust  herself  to  say  anything  more.  She 
was  gazing  at  Bonnie  May  again,  and  noticing  how 
the  strange  Httle  creature  was  cHnging  to  Flora's 
hand  with  both  her  own,  and  telling — ^with  her 
eyes  illustrating  the  story  gloriously — of  the  great 
events  which  had  transpired  since  that  day  when 
the  mansion  went  back  to  its  normal  condition  of 
loneliness  and  silence. 

Baron  was  observing  her,  too.  He  had  found 
a  chair  quite  outside  the  centre  of  the  picture,  and 
he  was  trying  to  assume  the  pose  of  a  casual  on- 
looker. 

But  Bonnie  May's  eyes  met  his  after  a  time  and 
something  of  the  radiance  passed  from  her  face. 
She  turned  away  from  Flora  and  stood  apart  a 
little  and  clasped  her  hands  up  nearly  beneath  her 
chin,  and  her  whole  being  seemed  suddenly  trem- 
ulous. She  was  thinking  of  the  home  that  had 
been  made  for  her,  and  of  how  it  was  Baron  who 
had  opened  its  door.  The  others  had  been  lovely, 
but  the  ready  faith  and  the  willingness  to  stand 
the  brunt — these  had  been  his. 

She  moved  forward  almost  shyly  until  she  stood 
before  him,  and  then  her  hands  went  out  to  him. 

"I  must  offer  my  congratulations,  too!"  he  said. 

But  she  ignored  that.  "Do  you  remember  a 
time  when  we  talked  together  about  some  words 

353 


Bonnie  May 

that  we  thought  were  beautiful — up  in  the  attic?" 
she  asked. 

"And  you  told  me  you  didn't  think  much  of 
'aunt'  or  'uncle,'  but  that  you  liked  'father' 
and " 

"Yes,  that  was  the  time." 

"I  remember  perfectly." 

"You  know,  there's  another  word  I've  thought 
of  since  then  that  I've  wished  I  could — could  have 
for  my  own." 

He  seemed  to  be  casting  about  for  that  other 
word. 

"It's  a  lovely  word,  too.  ..."  She  drew  closer 
to  him.  "Help  me!"  she  pleaded,  and  when  he 
looked  into  her  eyes,  a  bit  startled,  she  whispered — 
"Brother  .  .  .  brother!"  Her  hand  was  on  his 
shoulder,  and  then  it  slipped  its  way  to  his  neck. 

"Ah,  that  is  a  good  word!"  said  Baron.  And 
then  the  tempest  of  affection  broke,  and  she  had 
her  arms  about  his  neck. 

He  had  no  idea  she  was  so  strong.  She  was  chok- 
ing him  a  bit.  But  no,  it  wasn't  really  the  strength 
of  her  arms,  after  all,  he  reaHzed. 

And  then,  because  his  mother  and  Flora  were 
watching,  and  because — well,  because  he  was  Baron, 
he  straightened  up  and  got  possession  of  her  hands 
again.    He  patted  them  lightly. 

"It  is  a  good  word,"  he  repeated.  "It's  one  that 
has  come  to  have  a  much  bigger  meaning  for  me 
since  I  knew  you." 

354 


"The  Break  of  Day" 

"And  you  won't  think  it's  got  anything  to  do 
with  that  silly  old  joke  .  .  .  ?" 

He  was  really  perplexed. 

"You  know,  when  they  say:  'I'U  be  a  sister  to 
you !'  "  She  was  bubbling  over  with  the  old  merri- 
ment now.  "Just  to  make  you  keep  at  a  distance, 
you  know." 

"Oh — no,  I'll  be  sure  it  hasn't  anything  to  do 
with  that." 

He  regarded  her  almost  dreamily  as  she  turned 
again  to  his  mother  and  Flora.  He  was  thinking 
of  the  amazing  buoyancy,  of  the  disconcerting, 
almost  estranging  humor  which  lay  always  just 
beneath  the  surface;  of  her  fine  courage;  of  the 
ineradicable  instinct  which  made  everything  a  sort 
of  play.  They  would  be  hers  always.  Or  would 
there  come  a  time  when  she  would  lose  them?  He 
wondered. 

"There  is  our  niunber !"  interrupted  Peter  Addis, 
who  had  been  hstening  to  the  voice  of  the  an- 
nouncers. He  had  brought  the  party  to  the  thea- 
tre in  his  own  car. 

There  was  a  reluctant  movement  toward  the 
theatre. 

"...  Oh,  a  matinee  performance  now  and  then, 
if  she  likes,"  Thornburg  was  explaining  to  Baron. 
"But  for  a  few  years,  at  least,  that  will  be  all. 
She's  going  to  have  the  things  she's  had  to  go  with- 
out all  her  life." 

They  followed  the  line  of  the  wall  around  toward 

355 


Bonnie  May 

the  front  exit.  The  orchestra  had  quit  playing. 
The  time  had  come  to  extinguish  the  Ughts. 

But  after  the  others  had  gone  Baron  stood  a 
moment  alone.  He  looked  thoughtfully  toward 
the  upper  right-hand  box. 

"I  thought  she  was  lost  that  day,"  he  mused. 
"I  thought  I  was  rescuing  her.  And  now  I  know 
she  wasn't  really  lost  then.  Not  until  afterward. 
And  now  she  has  found  her  home  again." 


3S^ 


i&ljig----- 


A     000  136  904    'o 


